To Speak As A Child
by Mandi5
Summary: Frank and Peter, with the help of Catherine, try to save a young girl. I co-wrote this story with a very good friend a long time ago. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

To Speak As A Child

A MILLENNIUM fan fiction

By

JMM & Mandi

"_The joys of parents are secret, and so are their griefs and _

_fears."_

Francis Bacon

Summer

1997

Grace held her hands against the earphones, pressing them even closer to her ears. The beat pounded through her bones and she rocked in time to it, crouched in a near foetal position with her elbows resting on her knees. Lights and shadows flicked by her through the checked thin woodwork of the walls around her. She could see the wood bend and shudder as the stairs over her head let down a rain of dust as someone heavy pounded up them. She closed her eyes, and held her hand over her nose and mouth.

The music so completely blocked out any other sound she had to scramble to escape when the flimsy door flew back as if exploded off its hinges. She flinched from the hand that reached down from above and hauled her into the light. The hand held her shirt in one knotted fist under her throat, holding her inches off the floor. Her head banged up against the panelling, stinging tears to her eyes. She felt the cold hard end of a pistol shoved painfully under her jaw, and forced her eyes open.

"You don't know do you?" he said. His voice started as an urgent whisper, rising with every syllable until he was shouting. "You think you can just hide away in your dark little hole and no one will find you. No one will bother you. You think so, don't you?" With every 'you' he pounded her against the wall. "You don't know! I know." He ripped the headphones off. His voice dropped to a desperate conspiratorial whisper. "I know how they come in the night, how they can hide in the smallest shadow. Only I know. Only I can save you. You have to believe me. They are out there. I know it."

"Daddy, please..."

"Say you believe me. Say it!"

"I believe you, Daddy." She could barely get the words out, the gun pressing against her throat making a knot where her voice should be.

He moved the gun away by a centimeter, and she drew her first breath for what seemed like several minutes. He let her slide down the wall until her toes touched the floor. "I'm doing my best for you, you know that, don't you?" His eyes changed, seemed to soften as they focused on her instead of the visions inside him.

"Yes, Daddy," Grace whispered.

"My beautiful little girl," he crooned, nearly wept. The hand holding the gun went to her temple and brushed back a stray fragment of hair. He tucked it behind her ear. "My pretty one." He kissed her forehead. "You're growing up so fast. You're going to break all the boys hearts one day soon, aren't you?"

"Yes, Daddy," she agreed. Then at the steeling hardness growing like shards through his eyes, "No, Daddy. No I wouldn't. Honestly, I wouldn't. I- I-"

He slammed her back against the wall. "JUST like your mother! If I had a lick of sense I would keep you locked up in that little hole you seem to like so much." He let her go as if she'd suddenly turned into something soft and squirmy in his hand, brushing her off with disgust.

"No, Daddy. No Daddy, really. I wouldn't. Daddy, please."

"Get out. Get out of my sight." Grace stared at him. She slid away from him, along the wall, until she turned and ran for the door. "GET OUT!" he called even as the screen door slammed behind her.

* * *

Watts home

Seattle Washington

February 22,1998

"Dad, do tattoos hurt?"

Peter Watts clicked up the screensaver on his computer to hide the images on his monitor and looked up at his fifteen year old daughter. His eyes narrowed as he drew his thoughts away from the gruesome murder case he'd been studying. "Yes, they hurt," he said, his voice darkening in a 'why do you want to know' undertone.

"'Cause Jerry said they didn't, or only at first."

"You're not going to get a tattoo, Taylor."

She pouted prettily, not really upset or surprised that he guessed her game so easily, scouting his opinion without actually asking permission. "Please, Daddy. They're cool. Everyone's getting one."

"Not everyone. I don't have one."

She tossed her head at this piece of illogic. "You know what I mean. Just a little one, like a butterfly... or a rose."

Peter barely suppressed a shudder. "No."

"Oh sure, make me the outcast!"

"Taylor..." he warned. Taylor raised her hands, gesturing surrender. He took a deep breath after she left and clicked up the screen he'd been working on. With a frowning eyebrow, he noticed a photo clip in one corner and enlarged it to fill the screen. Identifying marks, it listed, with accompanying photos, rose with thorns tattoo encircling right wrist. His fingers traced the photo on the screen as his eyes closed briefly in pain.

* * *

Corinth, Montana

September 1997

"Promise me something," Grace whispered.

"Mmmm?" Jeff Turner lay on his back staring upwards. The light from the campfire lit the underside of the leaves of the big arching maples above them. Though the night was still, the light made it look like the tree was reaching down to him, creeping towards him.

"Promise me you'll take me with you when you go."

"What?" Jeff turned and looked at Grace, blinking a couple times to focus on her.

Grace pulled the corner of the blanket they lay on around her shoulders, feeling the evening chill for the first time. "You got that look. I know that look. You're planning on going. I can tell." They were mostly off the blanket spread over the grassy ground between the roots of the maple, and Jeff rolled over and started pulling on his pants and boots again, giving her the rest of the blanket.

"Is that why you slept with me? So that I would take you with me-"

Grace wrapped the blanket around herself like a toga. Hurt lined her voice as she spoke. "I slept with you because you wanted me to-"

A shot cracked through the night, followed by a hollered "Yee-haw!" Another shot.

They scrambled to their feet. "Todd! You idiot!" Jeff was still pulling on his jeans as he hobbled/crashed his way back to the fire. His friend Todd aimed a rifle somewhere over his head, waving it unsteadily with one hand, the other occupied with a half empty beer. Jeff swatted the gun aside. "You moron! What the fuck-"

"You 'bout done there, you two?" Todd asked swayingly. "I saw a possum, I think. Could be a 'coon. Something moving up there anyway."

"Are you _totally _fucked up, you moron? We were under that tree!"

Todd looked like he was seriously considering the consequences for a moment, until his face creased in a wicked grin. "That woulda been funny, heh? A possum come falling out of the sky just as you'n Grace-"

"Shut up, you moron," Jeff said, but couldn't hide the embarrassed grin in his voice. He ripped the beer out of Todd loose grip and finished it off himself. "Do you have to shoot at everything that moves?"

"Well, that's not much," Todd sneered drunkenly. "This whole town is dead."

Neither of his friends had any response to this. Grace looked at Jeff, who pointedly did not look at her. Grace got herself a beer, and plopped down by the river's edge letting her feet float in the water. She fell back against the grass, sighing heavily. The blanket fell open in suggestive places, but she didn't care, hardly noticed. The summer's heat still lingered late into September and the night air was heavy with it.

"We may as well be dead," she said, as if to herself. "What difference would it make to anyone?"

Jeff caught Todd staring at Grace's exposed breast, and poked his friend in the ribs with an elbow. Todd jumped and pushed Jeff away. Jeff laughed at him. "Go ahead, man. I don't give a shit."

"Naw, man, I couldn't," Todd said. "She's your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend."

Grace had rolled over to watch this exchange and these words brought her to her feet. "You could at least wait until I was out of earshot before talking about me behind my back." Fuck you, her eyes said. Fuck you Jeff Turner.

She let the blanket fall open to her waist. "You want this?" she teased Todd.

Todd barely managed to nod as he stared. He looked up at his friend who shouldered the rifle and sighted down the barrel. "How much your old man pay for this thing?" Jeff asked.

Grace spared a glare for Jeff, but led Todd off to the spot she'd left barely minutes ago.

* * *

Watts household

Seattle, Washington

February 1998

"Promise me something."

Peter was still working a short time later when Erin spoke, standing with two cups of coffee in her hands, leaning against the doorway to his office. His gaze was drawn away from the case he was still reviewing. A teenage gang of girls beat another to death for the crime of being unpopular.

"I heard about her," Erin said, distracted from what she was about to say, by the words she could read on the screen.

He clicked off the monitor and turned to face his eldest daughter.

"Promise you what?" Peter asked, ignoring her comment and knowing better than to promise up front.

"Promise me you'll give me your honest opinion, but only on the question asked."

Peter had an inkling what was coming. There was only one subject between him and his eldest daughter right now. Erin handed him one of the cups. Erin leaned back against the doorframe, sipping her own, and raised an eyebrow at her father.

"That will stunt your growth," he replied, indicating the coffee with one eyebrow.

Erin lazily stood and uncoiled to her full height, only an inch or two less than Peter. "I certainly hope so," she smiled.

"What's the question?"

"Promise me, first."

He hesitated a second, then said, "I promise."

She gave him a handful of brochures, universities that she was considering applying to. He turned them over and over in his hands as if he was studying them, but he really didn't see them.

"USC San Diego has a very good psychology program, Stanford for computers and Princeton - business. I've narrowed it down to those three, for now." She shifted in her chair. "I talked to the FBI recruiter the other day. He said the best degree to get before going into the FBI was either psychology, computers or business."

Peter's expression became guarded, and less than pleased. "He's right," he admitted. "And any one of them will give you a good start on something else if you change your mind."

"I'm not going to change my mind, Dad. And you promised."

"Four or five years ago you were going to be a Navy pilot."

She laughed. "That was more than ten years ago, Dad. Just after we saw Top Gun the first time."

"Then those flying lessons were for nothing?"

"I learned to fly," she said, her face lighting up. "That wasn't for nothing."

Peter looked down at the pamphlets again. He swallowed hard against something stuck in his throat. "Stanford," he said, "if you want my opinion." He handed them back to her.

"San Diego is cheaper," Erin said.

"Stanford is closer," Peter replied.

This time Erin swallowed, looked down, then back up at her father. "I still have to take my SAT's."

"You'll do fine," he smiled confidently.

Erin's gaze shifted to the screen behind him. "Don't you think you should let me know what I'm in for?"

"No," Peter said, finally.

"You can't protect me for the rest of my life," she said with some asperity.

"I can sure as hell try," he said, turning back to the computer.

She came up behind him and linked her arms around his neck, and kissed him on top of his bald head. "I'll apply to all three," she said, "then decide."

Peter acknowledged this with a nod, his attention already falling back into the case on the screen. Erin stuck her head back in the room, remembering something she meant to mention earlier. "Can you or Mom talk to Chelsea, when you get a chance? Something's been bugging her for days now."

Peter's eyebrows drew together in concern. "What about?"

Erin shrugged. "I don't know. She won't talk to me about it."

To be Continued


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Interstate 95

just outside Alberton, Montana

November 17, 1997

"White Chevy Cavalier-" Officer Larry Murtrie broke off as they swung 90 rubber squealing degrees around to follow the car he'd just described off the highway and down a side road. The car fishtailed back and forth, but finally caught some traction and accelerated. "Turning down Old Mill Road," he continued, giving one glance to his partner driving, who ignored the discomfort of his passenger.

"Jesus, Tom, take it easy on the kidneys," he said. He glanced at the speedometer, wedging himself in his seat with arms and feet to reduce the jostling over the rough road. Seventy-five plus miles an hour. Larry tightened his grip just as they hit a rut and bounced several feet in the air.

"Captain Marshall reports two dead at the scene," the female dispatcher's voice crackled over the radio at them. "You get 'em, boys," the dispatcher said. "Don't let these ones get away from you."

"Still want me to take it easy on your kidneys, Larry?" Tom said, not sparing a glance from the road.

"Yes," Larry said, focusing on the dust cloud in front of them. "But don't slow down." The trees on either side of the road opened up to the cleared space of an abandoned farm. The car ahead of them leaped ahead, but Tom slowed. It was a dead end. Forest surrounded the farm with the only road out behind them. "We're at the old MacKinnon farm," Larry shouted into his radio. "Get us some backup out here!"

"Five minutes!" the radio crackled back.

Larry threw the handmike in disgust. The Cavalier circled the fallen remains of the barn and came back to face the police cruiser. Larry turned to look at Tom. Tom gripped the steering wheel with both hands, the two cars facing each other like a game of chicken. No game this.

They could see three figures in the car, as still as themselves. The Cavalier's engine gunned, the tires spun and it headed straight for them. Larry glanced nervously at his partner as he shifted the cruiser down into second. "I always wondered what those airbags felt like," Tom said.

"Oh, _Christ_." Larry pulled his seat belt on just as Tom accelerated. The two cars headed for each other gaining speed, Tom holding the wheel with straight arms. Larry crossed his arms over his chest, pressing his head against the head rest. The Cavalier swung aside at the very last second. Tom swung the wheel at the last second to catch them, and Larry saw last the wide eyes of a girl as the two cars met and spun in screeching fury.

He came to the sound of a gunshot, automatically sliding down in the seat of the cruiser. Tom groaned and Larry thought his partner had been shot, but saw he had shattered the bones in his forearms in the crash. He heard sirens in the distance. Back up at last. He pulled out the shotgun holstered between him and Tom and fell out of the cruiser as he opened the door. He wiped at his eyes to clear his blurry vision, saw the blood come away on his hands, only then realising he was cut himself. Must of hit his head. He ignored it. The Cavalier was only fifteen feet away, driver's side crushed in, halfway in the dry ditch.

"Get out of the car!" Larry ordered, resting the barrel of the gun on the rim of the window of the door. What the fuck is taking so long? he thought, not hearing the sirens getting any louder. "One at a time! Get out of the car with your hands where I can see them!"

Another gunshot cracked the rear window of the Cavalier into a thousand pieces, spraying it scarlet with blood. Larry instinctively ducked behind the door of the cruiser, then peeked up again as his brain sorted the image and he realised they weren't shooting at him. Even so his finger tightened on the trigger of his shotgun. "Get out of the car!" he shouted.

Several cars arrived at once filling the air with dust and noise. Someone was talking to him, but Larry couldn't make sense of it. He saw someone else taking care of Tom. Seeming to come from everywhere at once was a high pitched keening scream, growing louder as more people heard and tried to locate it. Larry shook off the hands holding him and approached the car. He heard about a dozen rounds in a dozen rifles chambered at once, his own gun pointed at the ground.

The screaming grew louder, changing from metallic to human, then to feminine as he approached. The windows of the Cavalier were covered in dust on the outside, and dripping blood and white matter on the inside. He opened the door of the car, and the screaming jumped in volume.

The girl held a pistol to her temple, uselessly pulling the trigger again and again. Her eyes were very white, her skin covered in a fine pink mist of blood. Her screaming went on and on.

* * *

Corinth, Montana.

November 22, 1997

Allan Turner stood grim-faced as the burial service was read out, hearing the words, but not listening to them. He watched in disbelief and horror as Jeff, his only child, was lowered into the grave to forever lie beside his mother. Yesterday they had buried his best friend, Todd Burton. Todd's parents were also present today, their grief a wound re-opened. They managed to stand apart, though separated only by a few inches. Allan glanced over at Hal Burton, and saw the anger on the man's face. He looked dangerous she just looked heart-broken.

It was a bright, sunny afternoon. Even the wind was still. The kind of day that seemed so inappropriate for a funeral especially the funeral of a child. There was a slight warmth in the sun; a false memory of autumn, giving lie to the promise that this was a bad dream to be wakened from.

A day for grief and mourning should be rainy. It should be dark and dismal, like the hearts of those present were on this bright, sunny afternoon. It was a day when all of the townspeople had joined together to pay their last respects. Or as near all of them as made no difference. They gathered here in this small grave yard, up on the hill overlooking the town, along with the relations and family friends from neighbouring towns, some even came from as far away as Florida. Something like this, Allan Turner thought. It took something like this to bring this town together. There's something wrong with that.

Turner wondered where he had gone wrong. He glanced around, his question playing around and around in his mind. Then he noticed her standing there. He glared at her and she stared back, defiantly. He looked into her fourteen year old eyes from across the grave, saw the anger and the evil, and his question was answered.

As the coffin was lowered and came to rest, Grace stepped forward and from inside her coat took out a red rose and threw it, almost casually, into the grave. A collective, muted gasp went up from those nearby, who saw this act of desecration. Grace looked around, quietly, with little expression on her face. The other mourners eyes shifted from hers as if guilty. Todd's parents didn't even look at her once. Only Mr. Turner met her gaze. His rage couldn't touch her. Not any more.

With one will they parted before her as she turned and walked away from the graveside. Behind her she could hear them, and heard the names they called her - "Bitch," someone whispered. "Killer," another replied. "She killed them both," someone else muttered. "They shoulda kept her locked up."

Her father was waiting for her outside the gate. She stopped and stared. "I kinda thought I'd find you here," he said. "Was it a good service?" He held the passenger door open for her.

Grace stared at him. She shook her head. "They put him in the ground. What good is that?"

Her father looked at the ground, and back at the emptying graveside crowd, gathering the stares of the other parents as they passed. "Get in the car, Grace." She watched him flinch from every slashing glance, and finally got in the car.

* * *

Corinth, Montana

February 22, 1998

Sheriff Daly lazily crushed out the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his boot as he watched them carrying the body bag out of the house and place it into the waiting ambulance. He cursed silently at the thought of the boy's body inside. Jesus Christ, he thought - another friggin` suicide. There was no note, but an empty bottle of sleeping pills had been found lying near the body in the bathroom. The pills had belonged to the boy's mother. He figured she would be needing a repeat prescription real soon to get over this. They way things were going, the whole town would be have to be taking happy pills before long.

He lit another cigarette, putting off his intrusion into the home again, tormenting them with more questions. Shit, he thought, as he changed his mind, turned and walked away towards his car. They don't need me tonight, and I sure as hell don't need this. There'll be plenty a time to go over it tomorrow.

He started up the car. Suicide, he pondered. Yeah, that's what the preliminary cause of death would say, but he knew better, and he knew that they knew better, but dammit - how was he to prove it? He needed help, but from where? The Bureau up in Butte maybe?

Back at the station, he hung up the phone and looked at the number he had written down.

His deputy, Eddy, came over. "Heard you talkin'` to the FBI. Sounds like they ain`t interested?"

"Nope, they ain't, but they said these guys might be," he read the number again. A Seattle area code. "Guess I'll maybe try `em."

Eddy shrugged and walked off as Daly lit another cigarette and tried to make up his mind whether or not to call the number.

* * *

Seattle, Washington

February 22, 1998

"Chelsea," Peter called, seeing his youngest daughter flash by his office door, and remembering Erin's words.

"Yeah, Dad?" she answered, one hand on the still open back door, one step from being gone.

"Come here."

With exaggerated exasperation she flounced into his office. "What is it?"

Peter's eyes narrowed, distracted when he caught sight of her black rimmed raccoon eyes. "Are you wearing mascara?" he asked unnecessarily.

"I'm old enough," she said defiantly. "And I didn't take it from Taylor or Erin, either. I bought it myself. My friend Corey wears it all the time."

He could argue about fourteen being old enough to wear makeup, but he knew better. He didn't want to get too distracted. "Erin said you were being a bear about something."

She stood there stiffly, leaning against his desk, looking down at the floor, not bothering to deny something was bothering her.

"Erin's a blabbermouth," she said, but weakly.

"Can you tell me?"

"Dad, I'm supposed to meet Corey at the mall-"

"Is it school?" Peter asked.

She shook her head. "No it's not school. I can't tell you. It's a secret." Chelsea finally whispered.

"Is it a good secret, or a bad secret?"

"Da-ad! I'm not four!"

"You have to trust me enough to tell me what's wrong before I can help you," Peter responded. Interrogating suspects had nothing on interrogating your own daughter. He watched her carefully. There was something wrong and she was uncomfortable with it, and uncomfortable with the thought of telling him. But then, Chelsea could be stubborn sometimes, maybe that's all this was. He prayed that it was just some insignificant thing that she was blowing up out of all proportion.

She straightened up and looked at him, a seriousness on her face that made her look so much older than her fourteen years.

She took a deep breath and frowned.

"I made a promise. I can't tell you."

"Promises are one thing. It's important to keep your promises." She looked up at him, but Peter didn't read any relief at being let off the hook. "There are things more important than a promise, though, aren't there?"

"I guess," she whispered, looking down and rubbing her fingertips into the desk.

Peter read the signs of increasing agitation with concern. There was something going on here. "Chel, honey, you know you can talk to me, `bout anything, no matter what it is. You know that, don't you?" Peter reached for her hand and she allowed him to take it, letting it rest loosely in his, but her eyes were distant, far away, and he realised the moment had passed. He would just have to try again.

"I know that, Dad." She looked at her watch. "I have to go meet Corey now."

Peter watched her as she rushed off, his concern growing. Whatever it was, it was serious. As his private phone rang, he made a mental note to talk to Erin about it later. Maybe Chelsea might talk to her, or if nothing else, she could persuade her little sister to tell him what was bothering her.

He reached for the phone.

"Watts," he answered as he picked it up.

"Mr. Watts, this is Sheriff Daly of the Corinth Sheriffs Department. I believe you work for the Millennium Group, and I've been told that your people could help us. If you can, well, we could sure use some help up here."

Peter closed his eyes for a second. He reached for a pen and paper. "Tell me the details."

He listened carefully as the man told him the case to date, making notes as he went along.

"Sheriff Daly," Peter replied, "We'll take it, I'll have someone with you tomorrow."

When the phone rang, Frank glanced at the call display, recognising Peter's number.

"Hello, Peter. What can I do for you?" he said, his voice serious, he knew the call would not be a social one.

"Frank, I'm sorry to call you on a Friday evening, but I got a request from a Sheriff Daly in Corinth, Montana. They have a problem there and the Bureau don't seem interested, so they've called the Millennium Group in on it. You ready for the details?"

"Just let me get a pen - go ahead."

"Right, uh - it's a nasty one - a fourteen year old girl, bad childhood, father suffers from PTSD, took off with two local boys, they committed suicide or she shot them, that part is not clear. She was supposed to have died too, but didn't. Now she's back at home, to all intents an outcast. And since she's been home there have been a number of suicides and the locals, including the Sheriff I might add, believe she is behind it. Frank, I'd like you to go there, find out just what is going on and try and ascertain if this is just a statistical anomaly or something more sinister, involving the girl."

"Are you saying they believe she is carrying out the suicides or even inciting the victims to carry them out?"

"Something like that. Daly didn't elaborate, but I got the impression, the case is solved as far as he is concerned, but he lacks the evidence for a conviction. Frank I don't want to give you too much, Daly's beliefs are, well, somewhat biased. I want you to make your own impressions, see what you feel on it and then come back to me. One other thing, it's a small town, close knit, so don't expect too much from the locals."

"I won't. I'll be in touch, Peter."

Frank hung up the phone and looked at his watch. Another weekend planned with Jordan blown. Still at least he had tonight and a few hours in the morning, before he would have to take her back to her mothers before leaving for the airport. Oh damm, he remembered, Benny was to get his vaccinations tomorrow. If Catherine couldn't take him, he would cancel and make another appointment for next weekend. Curiously, Jordan had expressed a wish to see Benny getting his injections. Maybe she was a bit young to see this, but on the other hand she was impressionable and this might plant the seed for a desire to become a vet when she grew up. Peter's eldest wanted to follow in her father's footsteps and he would do anything to prevent Jordan from thinking along similar lines.

Thankfully, this time, Watts hadn't insisted on his going there immediately, and had even said a flight tomorrow would suffice. Maybe he was mellowing, or something -

"Jordan." He called her name. She would be disappointed at not being able to stay with him all weekend and most likely Catherine would be annoyed, but there was nothing he could do about it.

To be continued. . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

7:30pm

Watts household

The house phone rang and someone answered it.

"That was Corey's mom. "Chelsea is having supper at their house and she wanted to know if it was okay for Chel to stay overnight. I told her it was." Erin called from the kitchen as she replaced the phone, but her father didn't answer.

She stepped into his office. "Did you hear me?" she asked.

Peter glanced up, his face serious. "Sorry, I was thinking. Yes, I heard you."

He rubbed his moustache. "Where's Taylor?"

"Out somewhere, with Jerry, I guess."

"Oh yeah, she mentioned him, and then something about a tattoo. Who is this Jerry anyway?"

"You met him, Dad. Last week. Dark hair, pimples?"

Peter sat back in his chair. That description could fit almost any of the dozen young men Taylor had trailing after her.

Erin chuckled, recognising the problem. "The uh... brow ring?" she said, rubbing the corner of her own eyebrow to indicate where Jerry had his identifying piercing.

"Ahh," Peter said, recalling the boy now.

Erin laughed at his expression. "Relax, Dad. He's all right."

"Hmmm, if you say so - Where is your mother?"

"Showing a house in Bellevue. Said she had a good feeling about it."

Which meant that she might be late wrapping up the sale, Peter mused. "Are you going out?"

"Uh - no Dad. I hadn't planned to. I've still some homework to finish. Gonna start it now."

"Erin, it's Friday evening. You should be out too, enjoying yourself. Not at home studying."

She looked at him, then at his desk, shaking her head slowly. "Said the pot to the kettle."

"You're too much like me sometimes. Way too much." He frowned as she closed the door behind her.

* * *

10.30pm

Peter switched off his computer and stretched his aching shoulders then rubbed his eyes. He still had a lot of work to do, but he found that he was losing his concentration. He needed a break, maybe just for an hour, maybe for the evening. He glanced at his watch. Barbara is late, he thought, as a small seed of worry crept in, unbidden, but not unwarranted in this day and age. He wanted to call her, even reached for the telephone, but hesitated. She would not appreciate the interruption id she was busy. It rang and he grabbed it.

"Thirty minutes, an hour at the most. No longer," Barbara told him and he relaxed, smiling. How did she know he was worrying?

He turned his attention back to the screen, and toyed with the idea of working until she came home but found he was too restless to get back into it. The house was quiet, with both Chelsea and Taylor gone. No Spice Girls on the stereo, well at least that was a blessing, but he missed his daughters when they were out of the house. He wondered what Erin was doing, and went to look for her.

She was in the kitchen, her head buried in a large text book, a pile of notes beside her. She looked up as he walked in, smiled and went back to her studies. He shook his head in mock exasperation; she really was too much like him.

He watched his eldest daughter, the smartest of the three. Her top grades had always come easily to her, yet despite this she was not a lazy student. The more she learned, the more insatiable her lust for knowledge grew. She would read a book, absorb it, and then carry on searching, never satisfied, always seeking more answers to new questions. He reluctantly admitted to himself that someday she would make a great agent, but, God, he prayed, let her change her mind.

She was so much like him, from her clear grey eyes, to her smile, to her quiet, serious nature. Never a chatterbox, she was a listener, and had a tendency to remain on the sidelines sometimes. He had asked her once why she did not project herself more, and she had smiled and quietly replied that she would when she had something important to say.

"Dad?" Erin's voice intruded on his thoughts. He blinked and looked at her.

"What?"

"Why don't you want me to join the Bureau?"

There it was. Asked out in the open for the first time, no way around it. Up until now his resistance had been a matter of disguise, a coolness and lack of approval, distracting her from the topic, pointing out other options. A direct question, though, deserved a direct answer. He wished he had one for her. "It is a dangerous job, Erin..."

"Is it because you don't think I'm good enough? Because I'm a girl?"

"No," he said almost angrily. "Don't ever think that. Why would you think something like that?"

"I remember," she started, then her gaze slid away from him. Her voice turned smaller, distanced. "When Chelsea was first born, I heard Mom and Grandma Taylor talking. They said you were disappointed she wasn't a boy."

"You remember that?" Peter barely heard his own voice over the suddenly echoing emptiness inside him. Erin nodded. They both heard the moment pass where he should have denied it.

"I remember all I ever wanted was to be like you, even then," she said finally, to fill up that space. "And at that moment I knew it could never be because I was a girl."

Peter's breath came out as if he'd been kicked in the gut. He crossed his arms, and rubbed a finger into the corner of his eye. Faint hope that it would relieve the pain building there. "Erin," he said slowly, "this may come as something of a shock to you, but I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. That may have been the biggest one of my life. I regret... a lot of things, but I _never _regretted having you three girls. I'm sorry you were even aware of what was going on between me and your mother at that time. Don't ever think that... that-"

"Relax, Dad," she said as she smiled at him. A beat. "It's not that big of a shock. We never thought you were perfect."

He smiled back at her, wondering when she'd changed from a girl into the self-confident, self-possessed young woman he saw now. "Why aren't you out enjoying yourself, like your sisters?" he said, deliberately changing the subject.

"Well, the real reason is because I wanted to get this work finished up and then I could come to you, hand on my heart and say, with all honesty that I have all my homework done. And then if I asked you to let me go to skiing tomorrow with Kathy, Mark and David and stay over until Sunday, you would have no objections." She grinned.

He laughed and picked up another book on true crime that she had bought that afternoon. He read the title. `Mindhunter - Inside The FBI Elite Serial Crime Unit.` She read these kind of books all the time now.

He set the book down again and looked at her. "Yes, yes, go skiing, you have my blessing, never mind my permission."

Go skiing, Erin, he thought. Become a downhill racer, a world champion, it's no less dangerous. But there was no point in saying any of this. She already knew his thoughts on the matter. He stood up and kissed her lightly on the top of her head.

"Don't stay up too late."

* * *

Saturday

7:40pm

Peter switched on his computer and checked his messages. There was one from Barbara. She had caught an early flight to go visit her mother, who was ill again. The phone call had come in with just enough time for her to rush to the airport and he had barely the chance to say goodbye, never mind tell her about Erin's concern for Chelsea. This message was just to tell him she had arrived safely so he skipped it to one of more immediate interest to him.

It was from Frank, and read -

**To: PWatts**

**From: FBlack**

**Subject: Corinth**

**Attached: Corinth County Coroner, 9801 Turner**

**Corinth County Coroner, 9802 Burton**

**Corinth County Coroner, 9803 Sleeman**

**Corinth County Coroner, 9804 McIntyre**

**Peter-**

**arrived Corinth Saturday 6:15pm local time. The streets appeared deserted, all the stores in the heart of town closed exactly at 5:30, apparently along with the sheriff's department. I did finally find a place open. The local bar. I also found Sheriff Daly. I had to persuade him that I did want to get started right away, but once convinced he was co-operative. First thing he did though, was inform me that he already knows who the killer is, he just doesn't have enough evidence for an arrest. You know I like to complete the profile before looking at suspects, but... so far I don't see anything to directly contradict his conclusions.**

**He takes these kids' deaths as his personal failure, after having been sheriff here for more than twenty years. As he says: "No one so much as farts that I don't know about it." He claims 'his kids' don't get into the kind of trouble that the kids from the big cities do. I somehow doubt that both his claims can be true.**

**Attached are the autopsy reports. The first two boys, Jeffrey Turner and Todd Burton, have been buried already. You can have someone take a look at them, but I don't hold much hope. Powder residues were not taken off the boys, just the girl, Grace Barnett, who was with them. The pattern is inconclusive since she was reportedly at such close range when the guns went off. Her return to Corinth from her stay in hospital in Billings does coincide with the deaths -reported suicides- of the other three young men. I'll look into this coincidence in more detail tomorrow. So far, there is no evidence whatsoever to indicate these deaths were anything other than suicides, however 'statistically improbable' the Group's computer thinks they are.**

**So many suicides in such a short period of time**. **The people here are in shock, looking for someone, anyone, they can blame. It is a huge step from a statistical anomaly to a suicide cult, though, particularly one led by a 14-year-old girl. The charismatic personality necessary for such a cult leader usually doesn't manifest until a person is fully mature, though early signs may be recognised in childhood. And, for whatever reason, the charismatic is almost always male. Notable exceptions, of course, can be recognised if religious history is interpreted in modern psychological terms. Joan of Arc, for instance.**

**I'll wait to comment on whether Corinth is dealing with its own Joan of Arc until I actually meet the girl.**

**Hope you and your family are all doing well.**

**Frank.**

Interesting, thought Peter. I wonder what Lara's take on it would be. He downloaded the autopsy files and began to read them. The cold, analytical part of his mind envisioning each step of the procedures, while the emotional side of him recoiled in horror as he imagined cutting up these children to ascertain the circumstances of their deaths. He noted each stage, each relevant fact, grimacing at the photographs, the dead bodies on the mortuary slabs. The youngest was fourteen, the eldest seventeen. Young lives terminated before they had a chance to grow, to flourish, to live. He stopped for a moment and tried to picture them as they had been when they were alive and full of life, but all he saw were the faces of his daughters, the youngest was fourteen, the eldest seventeen.

A shiver of pure terror ran through him, similar to what every parent experiences now and then at the thought of what the world has in store for his or her offspring. A similar feeling, yes, but deeper, and infinitely more frightening, for he, more than most parents had witnessed and investigated and hunted exactly what this world held in store for the next generation. Maybe people like him and Frank Black and the countless others were powerless to stop it completely, but they would never cease trying.

But sometimes it scares me, God. Sometimes I don't know if I could do it without You. Please help me, and help me to keep my own ones safe. He prayed.

His thoughts and prayers were halted by a shout from the kitchen.

"Da-d," Taylor yelled. "When do you want supper?"

"Uh - give me half an hour, hon. Need any help?" he yelled back.

"Nope. Its sorted."

Peter shook his head, amused. Taylor was not going to give up on the tattoo idea easily. He had the feeling this sudden helpfulness around the house was supposed to weaken his opposition.

He read the remainder of the reports, focusing on the work at hand. Three dead by gunshot, one by an overdose, and one hanged, found by his nine year old sister. What nightmares would she suffer from now? He shook his head sadly at the thought, then re-read Franks email, reading the last line again, and thoughts of Chelsea once more sprang to his mind. He had tried to talk to her again when she had come home at lunch time, but she had been withdrawn, almost sullen even, and reluctant to discuss anything at all, never mind what was bothering her.

He stopped what he was doing and sat back, running his hand across his bare scalp. He was having trouble concentrating on work today, and had been like that all weekend. Thoughts of Chelsea, and Erin, but mostly Chelsea, kept intruding, pushing the work out of the way. He took a deep breath and began to formulate a reply to Frank.

**To:FBlack**

**From:PWatts**

**Subject: Re. Corinth**

**Frank,**

**I read the files. They make for grim reading, but then autopsy reports on children always get to me a little more, and I know it's the same with you. Have you spoken to the parents yet? Perhaps they could shed some light on any relationships the deceased may have had with the subject.**

**On checking the local PD files, I discovered that they all have, or rather had, priors for various juvenile misdemeanours. I'd rather you didn't mention the source of this knowledge to Daly, bearing in mind, these are juvenile files and as such are protected. The subject herself also has quite a long list of priors. If you require them, I can send them to you, they're in the Group database, but as I said this is confidential. One other salient point I noticed was that all five come from broken homes.**

**_I'll wait to comment on whether Corinth is dealing with its own Joan of Arc until I actually meet the girl._**

**I know its bad taste, Frank, but I couldn't help grinning when I read that line, although if I were you I would stay with the statistical anomaly theory for the moment and not go around mentioning Joan of Arc, especially in front of the locals. You don't want your subject burned at the stake!**

**Let me know how your interview with her goes.**

**_Hope you and your family are all doing well._**

**Thanks. We are all doing well here. Erin wants me to help her choose which university would help her get into the FBI. What am I supposed to say to that? Remember when we talked about it, and you said not to push too much for fear of pushing the wrong way, well I'm almost afraid to say anything. If I say no, it could strengthen her resolve, and if I seem in favour….well she might just think that I am in favour. I just can't win! I can't keep track of who Taylor is seeing this week and Chelsea…..well, she's just being fourteen, I think. There's something there, some worry she has, but wont talk about. I'm gonna have to work on that…**

**Frank, keep in touch and if there's anything you need, just call.**

**-Peter**

He read through it again, but it was Frank's last line that seemed to stick in his mind, reminding him that he had forgotten to ask Erin to have another talk with Chelsea. But then, in hindsight, he was glad now he had forgotten. Erin had enough to do. Sometimes he inadvertently let her shoulder some of their household responsibilities and while she took this in her stride, it was unfair, and after all, this one was his responsibility. He would make the effort to speak with Chelsea later when Erin and Taylor were not around.

He sent the email to Frank, and Taylor appeared beside him.

"Supper's ready," she said.

He turned to face her with a smile. "Just finished."

"Dad," she began, but he interrupted her.

"Taylor, if it's about the tattoo again, forget it. You are not getting one."

"Not a permanent one then, but I heard you can get these things called 'mehandi'. They're Indian henna tattoos. They only last a week. They're really pretty. And you can decorate them-"

"Taylor, I said no."

* * *

Corinth

2:15pm Mountain Standard Time

Monday

Turner residence

"Would you tell me about Jeff, please, especially the last few months," Frank asked. He sat at the kitchen table, his hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, while Allan Turner stood leaning up against the countertop. Sunlight fell past the pushed aside yellow curtains of the corner window behind Frank, catching the dust floating through the air until the streaks looked solid enough to touch.

Turner didn't look that eager to comply. Frank usually counted on getting into the house as the most difficult stage but here, it appeared, hospitality was so automatic that offering a stranger a cup of coffee, sitting them down at your table was no commitment to open your life story to them.

"Jeff was a good boy," Turner said finally. "It's that girl that's the problem."

Frank nodded. "As I said, I am only a consultant. I have no powers to arrest. But Sheriff Daly seemed to think that there was a situation here worth investigating."

"A 'situation?' He didn't seem to think it was a 'situation' when my boy Jeff were killed. It took him three more good boys to die before he clued in?"

Frank's jaw worked. "Why do you think Grace Barnett is to blame?" he asked. He did not want to get into a discussion about Sheriff Daly merits, or lack thereof.

Turner took a deep breath somewhere between a sob and a sigh. He shifted his weight between one foot and another and his gaze moved from the floor to the ceiling without looking at Frank in between. He gripped the countertop behind him with whitened knuckles. "We had some tough times, him and me," he said, "after Jeff's mother died. I admit it. She was sick a long time. And maybe I didn't pay enough attention to him, like I shoulda.

But things were turning around for us. It took nearly a year, but the bank refinanced the mortgage so's I could pay the medical bills, and I got back full-time at the mill, and ..." He looked at Frank directly, dusty streaks of light reflecting in his shiny eyes. "I thought it was going to be all right for us. But she wouldn't give him up. I forbade him to see her and he would defy me time after time to sneak out to see her. She'd come round here and beg him to come out to 'talk' to her. I don't know how many times I chased her off. Sometimes I had to get my shotgun out before she would listen." Turner's head bowed.

"The last time I done that, Jeff snuck off an hour later, and the next day I hear he's dead after shooting himself, and _by God_, she's still alive."

Frank flashed on ..._three scared teenagers in a wrecked car, their heads together as police sirens and lights flashed around outside them. "I love you," one whispers. "I love you" the girl whispers back, to both of them. A shot exploding, blood spraying across the window. Another shot, another spray of blood. A deathly second of silence. Then, at first faintly, screaming, a girl screaming, growing into a shriek. _

He blinked away the image. "I understand Jeff was in some trouble here in Corinth, before he took off with Grace," he said.

"Who told you that?"

"Vandalism, drunk driving, B&E."

Turner's eyes narrowed, his jaw moving as if his mouth held words he couldn't quite swallow, nor spit out. "He only started that after he met that girl."

Frank nodded. "I see. Thank you for talking to me."

* * *

Seattle

Monday Evening

It was Chelsea herself who came to him quietly, almost timidly.

"Daddy?" She said after supper when Taylor had gone out, again. She spoke in a small voice that quickly got his attention. He looked up, saw the long face and the serious expression. His own face grew serious.

"What is it sweetheart?" he asked.

"Are you busy? Can I sit here a while with you - and talk to you?" She walked towards him.

He nodded and drew her to sit in his lap. In one part of his mind he counted off the number of times she would let him do this, expecting to be rebuffed as 'not a baby' at any time now.

"What is it Chelsea? Do you want to talk about what's been bothering you these last few days? Is that it?" he asked gently.

Chelsea nodded and made squirming motions as if she would try to escape, but though Peter held her with only one hand lightly touching her fingers, she didn't get up or move away. She seemed to come to some decision, and her head fell against his shoulder, her arms threading under his and around him. Peter's hand stroked her hair, surprise and anticipated dread twisting his gut. He held her tightly, waiting -

"Is it something you'd prefer to talk to Mom about?" he asked.

She screwed up her face, pondering this suggestion, then shook her head. "No, I think I - I want to tell you."

"Then tell me," he prompted gently.

Hesitantly at first, she began to tell him, her voice growing stronger as her secret came out. "There's a man -Corey knows him -– he made her take off all her clothes and he took pictures of her, and Daddy, this man made her - do things - and he said he would kill her if anyone ever found out. He said he would find her family and he would -"

"Shh," Peter said, keeping his voice calm, stroking and rocking her. "It's okay."

"You can't ever tell anyone," Chelsea demanded, pushing herself away from him, her eyes bright. "He'll find out and he'll get out of prison and -"

"Chelsea, listen to me. No one will ever find out. But I am going to stop this man." She still looked doubtful. "Do you believe me?"

After a moment's hesitation she nodded, and hugged him even tighter.

He put his arms around her, still rocking her, holding her to him. She buried her head in his shoulder and he felt the tears on his neck as she began to weep softly. Oh Chelsea, he thought, closing his eyes. Why did it have to be this? Then another thought hit him.

He gently lifted her chin with his hand and looked at her tear-stained face. "Do you know this man? Has he spoken to you? Or has he -" he was afraid to ask, but knew he must.

"Chelsea, did he do anything to you? Did he touch you?"

"No Daddy, honestly - I've never met - I don't know who he is." She wiped at her eyes. "But he gave Corey money and said he would give her more if she got a friend to join in next time." She looked down at her hands. "Corey gave me some of the money. But Dad, she's really scared of him - that's why she made me promise not to say anything, he said he would kill her too." Her tears started again, her sobs catching in her throat.

"Shh, honey, shh. Corey will be fine. I promise. I'll stop him, I promise."

He held her for what seemed like ages, but it really was only five minutes or so. His mind raced forward, the investigator in him taking over, and for the moment pushing the horror away. It became just another case. Geibelhouse, he thought. I'll call him. Geibelhouse was the only detective in the Seattle PD that he knew fairly well. A good man, although a bit wary of him and sometimes annoyingly curious about the Millennium Group, but he was sympathetic and would be easily approachable. I can assist him, he thought. Check the Group database for known local sex offenders, bring in some Group resources, build up a profile -

For once in his life he didn't know what to say or do next, and just sat there with Chelsea on his lap. She sighed, the weight of all of this leaning heavily on her heart. He had to get her mind away from it somehow. With a forced smile, he hugged her once more then started to get up. She spilled off his lap and onto her feet.

"I'll catch him, Chel."

"You promise?"

"I promise," Peter nodded.

She followed him into the kitchen. She was still quiet and downhearted, and reluctant just now to be too far away from him. Erin looked up from the book she was reading, and she raised an eyebrow at the two serious faces that had just walked in. She was about to say something to this effect, but Peter frowned and with a slight inclination of his head told her to say nothing. She shrugged her shoulders and watched as he poured Coke for each of them.

"We had such a blast this weekend, Dad," Erin said. "Did I tell you? Thanks for letting me go."

Peter blinked, then caught on to what she was trying to do. "Your ski trip, you mean? No, you didn't say." Their eyes met, unspoken understanding, and they both watched Chelsea, still staring at the floor, her arms crossed over her chest.

Erin smiled tightly, but her voice was casual and unconcerned as she went on. "Kathy's dad has this cabin at Mt. Baker... The snow was _un_-believable." She hesitated enough for him to say something, but Peter just shook his head. She took this in with one flicked glance at his face. Erin, his quiet, almost silent daughter went on talking, telling them all about her ski trip while Chelsea's screwed up tension and worry seemed to melt from her. And at some point in Erin's ramble, Peter's own worry for his youngest was overwhelmed by his pride in the maturing sensitivity of his eldest, and the fist clenched around his heart eased, just slightly.

* * *

Corinth, Montana

Burton residence

8:12pm MST

Mrs. Burton welcomed him with a handshake at her door. "Allan Turner phoned me," she said. "He said you might be coming by. Come in, come in." She took Frank's coat, and sat him down on her couch, offered him coffee or tea, and a plate of cookies. Frank refused as gently as he could. She set the tray down between them, not sure what to do with them now. She sat on the edge of her chair, hunched forward in contradictory fear and eagerness. "Mr. Turner said you were investigating Grace Barnett. I'm so glad. I didn't think anyone was taking us seriously. I thought... just the ravings of grief maddened parents, you know, that sort of thing."

She took a breath and searched Frank's face for something. He couldn't tell if she found it or not, but she went on. "I know Grace didn't pull the trigger," she said. "I know what Sheriff Daly thinks, but Grace wasn't -isn't- like that."

"You know her?"

"I know most of the kids in this town. I was the local boy scout troop leader for ten years, and the soccer team coach. I drove for baseball, even the three hour round trip to Spokane for the division titles. I volunteered at the library for reading days, and..." She stopped herself. "Grace wasn't involved in any of those things. But I know most of the kids in this town."

"Tell me about Todd."

"Todd was a good boy," she smiled stiffly, after a moment. She pushed the cookie plate around, rearranging it. "But I'm sure most parents would say that about their sons. He was never the most brilliant at school, or the best athlete. I'm his - I _was _hismother, and I can say that. But Todd cared about people. He was always there when someone needed help, never needing to be asked. I taught him that."

"What was his relationship with Grace Barnett?"

She shook her head. "He didn't have one with her, as far as I knew. He was close friends with Jeff Turner though, and Jeff was devoted to Grace."

"You and your husband were divorced almost a year ago, is that right?"

Mrs. Burton stiffened even more. "Yes, that's right."

"And two months later Todd was arrested for threatening his father with a weapon?"

She nodded. "My ex-husband and I had an argument, another argument, that night," she sighed and looked down. "He hit me. That was why we got divorced in the first place. I tried to keep it from Todd but he ... exploded when he found out. He's too much like me, sometimes. He can't - couldn't stand to see anyone hurt."

Frank kept his eyes focused on his fingernails, his hand resting on the side of the couch. There were a number of other things he wanted to say, all of which would hurt her uselessly. "Why do you think he got in that car with Jeff and Grace?" he asked instead.

"That was Todd all over, don't you see?" she said. "He went where Jeff went, always. And Jeff went where Grace went. That's why they're both dead and she's alive."

"You don't think that Todd meant to kill himself?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. He wanted to stop them, I'm convinced of that. But he would," she said, her tears streaking down her face unnoticed. "He would do it if Jeff did it."

To be continued. . . . .


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**To: PWatts **

**From: FBlack **

**Subject: Corinth interviews.**

**I've interviewed the parents of the four victims. Each tells much the same story; Grace Barnett leading their "good boys" into their own destruction. I see something of a different pattern though. As you mentioned each of the victim's families were split up, through death and divorce. But note also, the destructive way they were separated. Jeff Turner lost his mother to cervical cancer, but he also lost his father while his mother was dying. He had no one else so he attached himself to Grace. Todd Burton grew up in a violent household, apparently inheriting his father's temper. His mother cast him in the role of her emotional support, when he himself desperately needed her support. The Sleeman's are separated, for the fifth time in their sixteen year marriage. They congratulate themselves for "sticking it out." According to them, their seventeen year old son was talking into hanging himself by Grace. Either that or he couldn't face being forced into a marriage like his parents when he found out his own girlfriend was pregnant.**

**I have yet to interview Grace Barnett herself. The burned at the stake analogy may be more appropriate than you know. I'm surprised that she is still alive. The ancient Greeks used ostracism instead of the death penalty, you will recall. Socrates, for one, preferred death. It offends many here that she is still alive while the boys are dead, so they punish her the only way they can. If Grace doesn't accept her punishment, I'm very much afraid they may move to the next level.**

**I sit here thinking about this case and I can't help thinking about Catherine and Jordan. How am I going to avoid the mistakes the parents here have made? How did you manage it?**

**I can't advise you about Erin, beyond what I've already said. Your reasons for your break with the Bureau are your own. You don't have to tell me. But maybe its time Erin knew. It may not even relate to her. You have to decide whether or not to share your experience with her, to make her understand why you feel the way you do about her career choice. She's growing up, Peter. Let her.**

**Kiss your girls for me. Cherish them. It can all go so wrong so fast.**

**Frank.**

* * *

Victim Support Office.

Seattle

Tuesday morning

Catherine Black hurried into her office. She was running a good twenty minutes late and knew it, and from the look her supervisor gave her, she knew it too. "Traffic was a bitch this morning," she murmured by way of an explanation.

She eyed the coffee, and licked her lips, but thought better of it and instead reached for the stack of files that had arrived on her desk that morning. Already, they had mounted up, though the tray had been empty when she had finished on Friday afternoon. She reached for the top one, opened it and began to read it. Another possible child molestation, the ones she hated most, yet always felt compelled to take, always hoping she could help. As she read through it, a name caught her eye, making her heart hammer in her chest, and an icy cold anger rose in her, but she read on.

She was tempted to palm it off to someone else, she was swamped with other cases anyway. Conflict of interest, she could say to her boss. I know this family. That might get her out of it. No, that wouldn't wash, she realised. It wasn't really his family anyway. But I could ask Julie to take it. God knows she owes me a few. Then she remembered, Julie was on leave today. Okay, she thought. You're stuck with it - but you can handle it.

* * *

2:20pm

Catherine didn't need to check the address she already knew it. She parked outside and sat for a while, gathering her thoughts. When she was ready she took a deep breath, got out of the car and walked up to the front door. She rang the doorbell almost hoping there would be no answer.

The door opened and she stood there, facing the enemy. She squared her shoulders and forced a smile.

"Peter."

"Catherine," he replied. "Uh - come in." He stepped back, a puzzled look on his face as she walked past him, into his house. He noticed her looking around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. He wondered what she had expected.

She turned to face him. He read the emotions in her eyes and her expression, anger, distaste, some embarrassment maybe, and concern.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked. "Is it something to do with Frank? Or Jordan?" A look of concern crossed his own face.

"No," she replied. "Not Frank. Not this time. Nor Jordan."

Then he remembered where she worked. "Chelsea and Corey," he said. It was not a question. She nodded and a faint trace of sympathy shone in her eyes. She was a parent too, a single parent these days, thanks to him.

"I have to speak to her, I called the school and they told me she had bunked off. I assume she's here."

"Oh yes, she's here all right. She arrived home just before lunch, in one hell of a temper, yelled at me, locked herself in her room. She's up there right now. Want me to get her?"

"No - not yet. I'd like to talk to you and Barbara first."

"Barbara's mother is ill. She has to stay with her for a few days, to take care of her. Anyway shouldn't it be Corey and her parents you need to interview?" He frowned.

"I've already spoken to them. Look, Peter - can we just sit down and let me go through all of this first?"

He lead her into the living room. From upstairs he could hear the sounds of Chelsea's stereo blasting away. They had had a row when she came home early from school. He was angry because she was home, but before he could speak, she had began to shout at him.

"You promised, Dad!" she had said. "You promised you would sort this out - you said you would catch this man, and then when I got to school today, Corey wasn't there. She's been taken away and the police know all about it."

He had tried to explain then, that he had to tell the police, and had tried to impress upon her that he could only help them, not do their job for them. But his explanations had fallen on deaf ears, and she had glared at him with such a look of betrayal in her eyes, that he had stopped and given up, for she had given up listening to him. He had left her to cool her heels for a while.

He looked again at Catherine. He knew this speech. How many times had he stood around in someone else's living room while an oh-so-sympathetic woman explained the unimaginable to the parents. His teeth ground together. It wasn't unimaginable to him. He'd seen the unimaginable. He'd picked up the battered ruins of a child's body afterwards.

Catherine cringed internally at the look on Peter's face. She steeled herself. "Peter. I did speak to Corey's parents, told them about the allegation Chelsea had made through you. They took it badly-"

"Well they would," he answered.

"No, not in the way you think. They were defensive, angry, almost as if they thought we were accusing Corey. I guess they're in denial. I spoke to Corey, in their presence, and she flatly denied anything had happened. Told me I was wrong. She didn't know any man, had not let anyone touch her, or photograph her, or give her money. Then her parents, sort of, got angry - and well, they ordered Geibelhouse and myself out." She paused. "And that's why I need to speak to Chelsea."

Peter looked at her for a long time. His eyes were cold and hard, glaring at her. He slowly rubbed his moustache. "Are you implying that my daughter made all of this up, because if -"

"No," Catherine interrupted him. "No, no I'm not, Peter."

Ah, shit, she thought, and took a deep breath. "Peter, I think maybe you'll have to consider the possibility that Chelsea is only telling the partial truth - that maybe this happened to her, not Corey. I'm not saying it did, most likely Corey is just scared, but we have to be sure."

"No, no - I asked her that directly. I think she would have told me," he answered quietly, shaking his head, but there was doubt in his voice.

"Peter, we have to be certain," Catherine replied. She watched him. She saw how his shoulders sagged and how the strength and confidence went out of him. If something like this were to happen to Jordan - the thought was unbearable and today she knew exactly how he was feeling.

"Peter -" She said softly.

He met her eyes. There was no longer any of the usual animosity that was there each time she met him, just sympathy and concern.

"Peter, let me talk to her. Alone. I know you have a right to be present, but this is an informal interview, and maybe it would be easier if she talked to me. Do you mind?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Go ahead. It probably would be better if I wasn't present. She's pretty mad at me."

* * *

Catherine knocked on Chelsea's door after Peter had gone. Not unexpectedly, there was no answer. She opened the door and the blast of sound made her wince. Chelsea lay across her bed, face buried into a large stuffed elephant. Catherine turned down the stereo volume without asking permission.

Chelsea bounced off the bed, turned on her, face contorted in fury, but froze in confusion when she didn't find her father there. "Mrs. Black?"

"Chelsea." The young girl's eyes were swollen and bloodshot. That was the reason for the blaring music, no doubt, to hide her crying as much as to irritate her father. Catherine carefully explained why she was there, and how she knew about the situation. She emphasised the confidentiality of her job, and that no one need ever know what they spoke about.

Somewhere along her explanation, Chelsea turned her back on her again, and laid down on the bed. "Dad said he would take care of it," she said when Catherine had finished, her voice full of teenage betrayal.

"He is taking care of it, Chelsea. But what happened to your friend is a crime. That's why he told the police. He can't just make this man go away."

"Corey thinks I squealed. I broke my promise."

"Is that what you think you did?"

Chelsea didn't answer.

"You did a very brave thing in telling your father. I can only imagine how hard it was for you. But think back. Why did you do it? Why tell him at all?"

After a moment Chelsea turned over and looked at Catherine. She hugged the stuffed elephant to her chest, her knees drawn up. "Corey said that he didn't hurt her or anything," she said slowly. "He just took pictures. She didn't think it was all that bad. It made her feel grown-up, she said. She wanted me to go with her..." She took a deep breath. "It made me sick to think about and I thought she needed help. I couldn't help her. I thought my dad could."

Catherine watched as Chelsea got up and walked over to her bookcase. She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, childhood favourites all neatly put away. "It's all gone wrong," Chelsea continued. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Corey and her family are going through some stuff right now that doesn't have anything to do with you. Not directly. What you did was right, Chelsea. You were acting as her friend. The best kind of friend anyone could hope for."

"Then how come I'm the one who feels so shitty?"

Catherine had to smile at this. "I don't imagine Corey is feeling very good right about now, either. But in the end..." She stopped. In the end it will all turn out for the best. That was a promise Catherine Black didn't think she should make. She sat on Chelsea's bed, taking the tear damp elephant into her own lap. "I'll tell you a secret," Catherine said. "One not even many adults know. The thing that's right and the thing that feels good are not often the same thing."

Chelsea looked at her. "Being a grown up must really suck," she said, sitting next to her.

Catherine laughed out loud, and pulled Chelsea into a hug. "Sometimes it does," she admitted. "Sometimes it really does."

* * *

Nervously, Peter paced the floor. For the first time in eighteen years he longed for a cigarette. Erin and Taylor would be home from school soon. What would he tell them? That their sister may have been sexually assaulted? They had always promised him they would look out for one another. Had they suddenly failed in that respect? If Chelsea had been abused, where had Erin and Taylor been? Why hadn't they done something? He felt so afraid, but on top of that fear came the anger, and then the guilt. It was he who had failed, not the girls. He was their father, and it was he who should have protected Chelsea. But why hadn't Erin and Taylor -? Then he stopped himself, refused to let his mind think along those lines. Be positive he told himself. Don't look for the worst case scenario. This couldn't have - no, he said to himself, it hadn't happened to Chel, not to his baby.

He went outside and leaned against the railing and glanced up towards her bedroom window. What were they talking about? He glanced at his watch. It was taking way too long. He imagined her crying in Catherine's arms, telling her what had been done to her. He almost wept himself at the thought.

Peter went back indoors and waited, and looked at his watch. Catherine was still with Chelsea. It had only been half an hour, but it seemed like ages. And the longer it seemed to take, the more he suspected what he dreaded was true. Why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she come to him instead of pretending it had happened to her friend? He had always had a good, open relationship with his daughters. Had always been able to talk to them about anything. Or so he had thought up until now. But then she had come to him, and told him as best as she could. At least she had done that. Whether or not he could fix it for her was another question.

* * *

Erin and Taylor arrived home just as Catherine and Peter walked into the kitchen. After a few minutes, with a slight nod of his head, Peter motioned for them to leave. "Later," he said, when the girls would have chatted longer with Catherine. They obediently gathered up sandwiches and orange juice and left them alone.

"Coffee, Catherine?" he offered, aware he was putting off the inevitable.

"Uh - yeah, why not?" She sat down and ran her fingers through her long hair. She glanced at her watch. Peter noticed this.

"You can call Jordan if you like."

"No, it's okay. It's Ann's turn to collect her from school and she will be fine with her until I get home. What are you going to tell Barbara?" she asked.

He reached her a cup of coffee and sat down opposite her. We are always on opposite sides, he thought, until today. He ran his lips between his teeth, then took a mouthful of coffee.

"Nothing, right now. She's got a lot to deal with her mother right now, and I don't want to worry her."

Catherine's eyes narrowed. Was it a contagious disease, she thought or just a pre-requisite to work for the Millennium Group, this need to protect us by keeping us in the dark? Just who do they think they are? Do they think we don't know the difference between their make-believe world and what's really out there?

"So what did Chelsea say?" he asked, his voice sounding casual, but underneath he was more nervous than he`d ever felt, and more frightened.

"Not much more than what she told you initially," Catherine said. "I asked her if there was anything more and she just shook her head. Then I asked her if it was her this had happened to, and she told me it wasn't, and I believe her, Peter."

"You're sure?" he asked. "You're really sure?"

She could hear the relief in his voice. "Yes, I'm sure, the body language was good, she wasn't lying nor being evasive. She's much more concerned with how this will affect her friendship with Corey, than with the actual assault."

"Body language?"

Catherine smiled. "Uh-huh, body language. When interviewing the victims of possible sexual abuse or assault, there are usually certain mannerisms, certain things they say and do, that help us tell, not so much if the victim is lying deliberately, but is maybe too scared, or too guilty to admit anything. Remember, in most cases of child molestation, the victim knows, or is even related to the perpetrator, and there is usually some, and very often, a large degree of guilt-transference. If Chelsea had been abused, she would show more signs of guilt, self-blame."

"Yeah, I know that, I've worked on enough myself, though usually from the other side, but I know what you mean."

"It's a bit like profiling," Catherine allowed herself another smile.

Peter couldn't help grinning at her, relief making him almost giddy. "So we're not that different after all."

"The work may be the same, Peter, but that's all." Catherine regretted her reflexive coldness as she saw the distancing mask slip back across Peter's face. Why did she always feel she always got the worst of any encounter she had with this man, even as she got the last word? She knew better than to antagonise anyone unnecessarily, and yet she couldn't help herself. She drained her coffee and stood up. "I'd better go, Jordan will be worrying."

He showed her to the door. She stopped and turned to face him again. "Geibs and I will try the parents again. We won't let it drop."

"Okay - Thank you, Catherine," he said softly.

Catherine merely nodded and got into her car. She let out a deep breath. It was a bit like a high wire act, she mused unsteadily. Frank the aerialist, going farther into the dark than anyone else would dare, balanced on the knife edge of sanity; Peter the safety line ready to pull him in if he went too far. It only became really frightening when you realised that the safety line itself was not unbreakable.

* * *

Corinth, Montana

Tuesday Feb. 24th

"This is ridiculous. I can't believe we can't do anything about-" Hal Burton shouted angrily.

Sheriff Daly shuffled to his feet, and held out his hands as if to hold the crowd down. "Mr. Black's investigation-"

"Mr. Black's investigation," Burton sneered, "seems to consist of nothing more than lending a sympathetic ear. I don't need my hand held. I need to see my boy's killer put away for good. We all know what that our boys would be alive but for that girl."

"That is exactly what he is here for, Hal. I could have her in a cell tonight on any number of minor things," Daly said. "What I don't have is evidence enough to keep her there."

"I say that it's time we finished the job she was too chicken to finish herself," he said, slugging his fist into his palm suggestively.

"That's just about enough out of you," Daly said, holding up a warning finger to Hal Burton, his normally genial manner evaporated. "I won't stand here and listen to anyone planning a criminal act. I don't care for what reason."

"Yeah," Allan Turner added, not looking up from his shoes, "you can't go around beating up girls you're not married to."

Dreadful thick silence filled the small room as if it had suddenly been drained of oxygen. No one knew where to look, certainly not at the two Burtons, one on either side of the room. Finally Turner looked up to meet twin glares from both Daly and Burton.

"Stop it. Stop it, please." Mrs. McIntyre's soft voice intruded. "We can't fight amongst ourselves. It only makes her stronger. We all have to do it, or it doesn't work at all."

They evaluated each other silently. "Are we agreed then?" Allan Turner asked. One by one they nodded.

"Sheriff?"

Daly looked sour, but nodded once. "All right."

* * *

Seattle

Tuesday

12:23 am

"My Dad would freak if I got one."

Taylor's friends greeted this announcement with the derision it deserved. "It's not about what he wants," her friend Karen said. "It's about what you want."

"How is he going to know," Jerry asked. "He doesn't watch you undress, does he?

"No, of course not. I just - you don't know him. He has this way of looking... I don't like to lie to him. He always knows."

"Taylor, lying to your parents is the God-given right of being sixteen. It's expected."

"Yeah," Karen laughed, her sarcasm light but still real. "How can you rebel against authority and tell the truth at the same time?"

"What if I don't want one?"

"That's one thing. But don't tell us you don't want one when you're really just afraid of your father finding out."

"I'm not afraid of him. I just don't-"

"How can you not want one?" Jerry said, rubbing his bandaged arm. He winced. "This is permanent. This really says who I am."

"All it says, Jerry, is that you have a thing for chains and barbed wire," Karen jibed.

Taylor sat back with sigh. It was best just to stay out of the way when Karen and Jerry got started. There were several other teenagers hanging out with them in the park. It was an unseasonably dry night, though not exactly warm out, it was a lot better than being stuck inside after a week of rain.

"Exactly."

"Oh, get off. You keep saying this is Taylor's decision, when all you really want is her to agree with you."

"It is her decision."

They both looked at her, and she hid behind taking a slug of beer. "I haven't decided yet," she said, and grimaced, coughed and looked at the bottle. "How can you drink this stuff?"

"No one likes beer their first time," Karen said, laughing. "It's another ritual of being sixteen."

"Uh oh. Cops," Jerry announced, catching sight of a pair of uniformed officers approaching. The three of them stood as the others disappeared into the bush, leaving behind broken bottles and the trash of their impromptu party. Taylor and Karen exchanged groans, shading their eyes from the flashlight in their eyes.

Taylor kept herself small as they got the standard lecture about drinking in public and being in the park late at night. Despite the table and grass littered with empty and half empty bottles both Karen and Jerry steadfastly denied they had been drinking, blaming it on the others by now long gone. They resolutely promised the cops they were heading home.

Taylor never saw what exactly happened next, but suddenly she was flattened on the ground with her arm racked up behind her back, Karen likewise beside her, and handcuffs clacked shut around her wrists. Only then did she notice Jerry and the female officer struggling. Taylor shouted at him, the male cop shouted at her to shut up, then pulled his gun on Jerry, who finally gave up, slowly raising his hands. Taylor stared in horror as the woman cuffed him, almost not recognizing Jerry.

"Are you out of your mind!" she hissed at him, still handcuffed and lying on the ground as they waited for additional police cars to arrive to take them to the station. "What on earth did you do that for?" But Jerry brushed her off, refusing to answer or explain.

* * *

Geibelhouse didn't notice the teenagers when they were brought in. Only by chance was he walking by to hear the young blonde announce who they should contact to take her home. "My father, I guess. Peter Watts." That caught his attention.

He called the policewoman aside, and got the details of the incident. They were rousting a party in the park when the young man suddenly turned abusive and threatening. The girls were brought in only on general principles. Geibelhouse persuaded her not to bother with further paperwork on what were minor misdemeanours at most in any case.

Peter thanked Geibelhouse with a handshake for calling him when he arrived at the station. Geibelhouse looked more embarrassed than he did, reassuring him that Taylor wasn't hurt or in any real trouble. Peter asked him if he had any additional information on Chelsea's case, or rather Chelsea's friend's case. Geibs told him they had a probable ID on the man, and were checking into his history. Even if Corey didn't come forward, perhaps someone else would.

They were still talking when the policewoman led Taylor out from the room where she and Karen had been kept waiting. It didn't have bars, but it was still a cell. To her surprise her father did not appear angry, not even noticing her arrival right away, busy discussing another case with the detective.

"Call me as soon as you find out anything more," he said.

"You'll be the first," Geibelhouse pledged. "You take care now," he said to Taylor. "I'd rather not see you on that side of my desk again."

Taylor smiled nervously, agreeing.

"Thanks, again," Peter said. He shepherded her out of the station with one arm around her shoulders. "Are you all right?" he asked, and appeared satisfied when she nodded.

The drive home was as silent as expected, but instead of the anger radiating from him that she expected, Taylor had the impression her father had already forgotten the incident. Was thinking of something else entirely.

"I wasn't drunk," she said.

"I can see that, Taylor."

Several minutes passed.

"We weren't doing anything, honest. It would have been fine if the cops hadn't bothered us." And if Jerry could control his temper. But she didn't say that part.

This time he spared her a single glance, then turned to driving again. "Even if you weren't drinking, your friends were. You don't have a driver's license, Taylor. How did you expect to get home?" A sigh escaped him. "I am a little disappointed. I expect you to have better sense."

Taylor withered, regretting ever provoking him. There it was. The dreaded 'disappointment'. It was evidently all the reaction she was going to get out of him.

"I'm sorry, Dad. It won't happen again."

"Promise?"

She nodded, and took a deep breath, straightening. "Promise."

He nodded, satisfied.

* * *

When they got home, a silent Taylor went straight to bed, but Peter sat down at his computer for a few minutes. The Oroborous was flashing and he opened his email.

**To: PWatts **

**From: FBlack **

**Subject: Corinth update.**

**Peter-**

**Just to keep you up to speed. The subject, has come forward, so to speak. She let loose Monday night/Tuesday morning and committed several acts of vandalism. Daly arrested her and she spent some time in a cell. Unfortunately he released her before I had a chance to speak with her. I get the feeling that these acts were her desperate attempt to contact me, to get my attention. If only Daly had called me first, I could have spoken to her, worked through this with her and maybe gone some way to gaining her trust. But, instead he merely released her on bail, into her father's custody and I missed my chance. I made it clear to him that I need to be informed with regard to anything involving Grace if he expects my help. **

**The mood of the townspeople has changed somewhat. I feel they doubt I can fulfil their expectations. The mood is darker now.**

**I'll keep you posted.**

**-Frank**

* * *

Seattle,

Wednesday Feb 25th

"Let me get this straight," Erin said, leaning up against the kitchen counter. "You get Dad dragged down to pick up his own daughter from the Seattle PD - guys he has to work with nearly every day - and you're upset that you didn't get a lecture? Do you have any idea of how mortally embarrassing that must have been for him?"

"I know, but he was -"

Erin couldn't help grinning. "Mom's gonna flip."

Taylor rolled her eyes as this suddenly dawned on her. She saw herself grounded for the rest of her life. "Maybe he won't tell her. Maybe he'll forget because -"

"As if." Erin shook her head.

"I'm just saying-" Taylor said, fighting to keep her voice even. Erin always managed to make her sound like an idiot. "I'm just saying he was pretty distracted by this case - whatever it was."

"What case?" Chelsea asked, not looking up from her uneaten cereal.

"Never you mind," Erin said. "Hurry up. Mrs. MacDonald will be here to pick you up in a few minutes."

"What case?" Chelsea insisted. "What did he say?"

"The detective was saying how they were tracking this guy's history - some sexual thing, I think - but I guess he's travelled around a lot, doing the same thing over and over, skipping town as soon as the figures the cops are on to him."

Erin started guiltily when she heard the car horn, caught listening to Taylor's gossip, and watching Chelsea's atypical intensity. "Taylor, enough. Chelsea, there's your ride. Go to school."

After Chelsea left Taylor looked around, once again feeling like she'd missed something. "What? What did I say?" she asked as her sister cleared up the breakfast dishes.

Erin shook her head. "It's just - with Mrs. Black coming over here, the way Dad and Chelsea's been... I think it may have something to do with what's been bugging Chelsea."

"Chels? What could anything have to do with Chelsea?"

"You're not that naive, Taylor. Don't pretend you are." Taylor looked about to object, but then suddenly Erin could see the pieces fall together for her, written on her face. "Don't say anything," Erin warned her sister with a soapy knife, "To anyone. We don't know."

* * *

Corinth

Wednesday

The waitress refilled his coffee cup, he thanked her and once again read over the notes he had made. Notes on his interviews with the parents of the deceased children. But other than their overt hostility towards Grace and their natural and, most certainly understandable grief, there was nothing he could glean from their comments. They were unrelenting in their hatred of her, and he knew somehow, that even if he could prove the shadow of a doubt that she was not responsible for the deaths of the their offspring, they would never forgive her or accept her as part of them. Maybe that was it, Frank mused. Grace was somehow different, set apart from the others, and that which is different is never understood or fully accepted. But evil? No, he couldn't see her as being evil. But what she was, he hadn't figured yet. And maybe that was the key to solving this problem.

Grace was the epitome of their grief. Blaming her was the only way they could find to channel it into something beyond blind pain and anger. She would become the scapegoat for their suffering, and he had to prevent that because he felt, or his gift told him, she was not the reason, that she was innocent. But how was he going to do it? How could he resolve this? He pondered these questions as he drank his coffee.

Frank sat back, his meal finished, and gazed around the small café. Empty, but for himself and two bored members of the staff, gossiping by the bar. Most likely about him and the events of recent times, and his involvement in them. His thoughts strayed back to Seattle, to his home, to Catherine and Jordan and the break-up of their family unit. Was Jordan destined to be another divorce statistic? A child reared by parents with no love for one another, or no life together, shuttled back and forth between them, and having to grow up accepting this as normal, splitting her love into two separate halves? No, he thought. Catherine and he could, would resolve their differences and they would be together again. He could not let himself believe otherwise.

* * *

Wednesday evening

Frank sat on the corner of the table behind the sheriff's desk and watched the faces gathered before him. He read the emotions on those faces, a mixture of anger, despair and grief. Mostly grief. That was so obvious. He recognised a few of these faces; Alan Turner, Jeff's father, the Sleeman's, together, yet apart, Todd's mother, but not his father. He was surprised to find her among this gathering. From what he had heard of the father, he would have expected him to be here, but not the mother. There were a good few other's. People he had seen around town, but did not know. Most of them he presumed were parents, who now saw their children as Grace's potential victims.

Their questions were directed at Daly. Frank remained in the background, playing the role of silent observer, listening to their outpourings, analysing and gauging their deeper feelings both from the wording of their questions and their reactions to Daly's reluctant responses.

"Why, dammit, is she still running around?" Dave Sleeman asked. "You had her and you let her go, when you shoulda charged her with murder."

"She's been charged on four counts of vandalism," Daly responded. "I've no evidence to charge her with murder. I'd no authority to keep her in custody."

"Isn't that why he's here?" Alan Turner pointed to Frank.

Daly, along with the rest of the group looked at Frank. He took his cue and spoke softly to them.

"You seem to be under the impression that I am here to solve the murders of your children. But that is not the case. None of them were murdered. There is no evidence to support that fact. Your children committed suicide and that is the reality of it. You know that, and I'm sorry that each of you have to live with this terrible fact, but I cannot see any other evidence to support your claims. What you have given me, what I have seen and heard here, is nothing more than a tangled web of innuendo, hearsay and attempts to apportion blame. No hard evidence."

"So that's it then," someone from the back spoke up. "You're just gonna leave it like that?"

"No," Frank answered. "I'm still here. I'm still working with Sheriff Daly. I haven't completed my investigation."

Frank looked around at the angry faces and took a deep breath. "But I am very close to being convinced that Grace Barnett is not the one responsible for these deaths."

"Then who is?" someone called out.

"I think all of you should look to yourselves, to your own responsibilities as parents for the answer to that question." Frank quietly replied. "You can come together, here tonight, to try to destroy a young girl's life. Can you do the same to try to save your own children?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Seattle

Peter reached for the phone smiling as Barbara spoke his name.

"How is your mother?" he asked.

"She's a lot better now. I should be home towards the end of the week. How are you?"

"I'm fine," he responded. "Missing you though."

"No problems I should know about?"

Peter hesitated slightly. Should he mention what was going on with Chelsea only to have her away from home and fretting? No, he decided and instead told her about Taylor's latest escapade.

"Okay," Barbara sighed. She had ceased being surprised by Taylor a long time ago. "Don't let her know that I know. I'll hit her with it when the time is right, when I need some ammo."

Peter laughed.

"I'd better go honey, Mom's calling me. Again. I'll talk to you soon."

"I love you," he said, but she'd already hung up.

* * *

Corinth

Frank looked at his watch as he stood outside. Six-thirty pm. He decided to walk back to the hotel, needing the fresh air to clear his head. As he walked, he got the feeling there was someone following him, but when he glanced over his shoulder, there was only his shadow cast by the full moon. Still, he could not shake off this feeling. The meeting tonight had not gone well, and maybe what he sensed was just the residue from the heated emotions, so obvious in the hearts and on the faces of those who had gathered. He, along with Daly, had taken the brunt of their anger and grief, and now he felt a stirring of unease. Something, some force was gathering in this small town, there was a tension in the air, like a storm brewing, he thought. This worried him. His comments that he did not believe Grace to be responsible had not helped. But he had wanted to try and make these people see a bit further that what they perceived to be the truth. To make them realise there were no absolutes when it came to guilt and innocence. Maybe Grace had played a part, an emotional part, not a physical one, but she could have, through her friendships with these kids, been instrumental in making them believe suicide was the answer to their problems. Personally he didn't believe so, but he needed to question her more before he could be absolutely sure.

He turned up the collar of his coat against the chill and hurried back to his hotel.

He was tired and ready for bed, the walk had not refreshed him as much as he had hoped, but he checked his laptop for email first. One from Peter. He sat down and read it.

**To: FBlack **

**From: PWatts **

**Subject: Re: Corinth Interviews**

**Frank -**

**I 'd hoped to reply earlier, but I've been trying to sort out this problem with Chelsea. You could say I took some "personal time off" yesterday… It turns out a friend of hers has been sexually abused, and Chelsea has taken it very badly. Anyway, I passed it on to Giebelhouse and he, in turn, forwarded it to Victim Support and your Catherine showed up yesterday to interview Chelsea. I think both of us were a bit embarrassed and wary of each other, but she had a long talk with Chelsea and it has made a big difference. Chelsea later said, and I agree, that "Mrs Black is a very nice lady." She has promised me, and Chelsea, she will not let the matter drop or end up filed away somewhere, as these cases so often do, so will you pass on my sincere thanks to Catherine next time you are speaking to her?**

**I found the Corinth interviews interesting. But to date you have really only heard one side of the story, and I can see where the parents are coming from, but surely, this girl Grace cannot be as bad as they are making out? I assume the parents of the dead kids are unanimous in their hatred - if that's not too strong a word, of Grace. It may be worth speaking to some others that are not directly involved or even some of her peers. **

**Perhaps you will have to consider taking the girl into protective custody, if feelings are running as high as they seem to be. She seems pretty elusive, but the mere fact that she has been following you and taking an interest in you would tend to indicate a potential willingness on her part to talk, to relate her side of the story. And now, with these acts of vandalism, she is expressing her frustration, her anger, and her need. She may see in you a last chance. I think you're right Frank, she is trying to get your attention. **

**Have you picked up much by way of your "other investigative technique"? What, if anything, does it tell you about her? **

**I'm beginning to get the impression that it could end up a real mess, if what you think might occur, does occur. Once they get into the lynch-mob mentality it can only escalate and those who do support Grace will find themselves on the minority side of two opposing, and possibly very violent, factions. **

**Keep me updated, and if the necessity arises, I can always join you, or send any other resources you may require. **

**I've taken note of the advice you gave me on Erin - thank you - and whilst I haven't ruled it out completely, it's not a path I'm eager to travel down again, but then again if I have to, I will. It doesn't really have any bearing on why I don't want her to apply to the Bureau. You know I've been pondering my reasons for my reluctance and it boils down to the fact that I may be just an overprotective parent, and want to keep them all safe from the world. I know you can't wrap them in cotton wool, but sometimes you want to try.**

**-Peter**

Frank read the email several times and considered his reply. The developments and the atmosphere at the impromptu meeting tonight worried him and he wanted to keep Peter up to date, but it was too late and he was too tired to start collating the events into a message. He fired off a short note before he could talk himself out of it.

* * *

Barnett residence, Corinth.

8:15 am

Frank pulled up outside the Barnett house. He saw Will's car parked outside and hoped the man would be receptive to an interview. He had no authority to speak with either him or Grace, but he hoped they would consent, and he had planned to catch her before she went to school, if she went to school. Maybe the chance of a day off would make her more eager to speak with him. He was about to get out of the car when his phone rang.

Daly voice sounded angry as the man asked him to meet him at an address a few miles out of town. The Sheriff did not elaborate on why he wanted him there. With a shrug and a last glance at the Barnett residence Frank started the car and turned in the opposite direction, following the directions Daly had given him.

The two deputies and the paramedics stood back respectfully and let him pass through their ranks. They had completed their task. There was nothing much they could have done anyway. It was obvious she had been dead for a number of hours, most likely since late last evening. All that was left was to remove her body. They had attempted to revive her, reluctant to give up in the face of death, their natural instinct to heal overcoming the obvious futility of their actions. For a few moments they had worked on her, going through their rituals and then they had called it, and cleared away their equipment, letting the post-mortem rituals begin.

Someone had covered her, allowing her death in this dirty barn some dignity and as Frank walked towards her, Daly removed this covering. Frank groaned silently and closed his eyes. Grace, he thought. But it wasn't her, on closer inspection he could see that now. But for the briefest of moments it had seemed to be her.

He knelt beside the corpse, a fifteen year old girl, pretty even in death, her eyes open and fixed in a look of horror as though at that last moment she had seen something that had frightened her. Her blouse was closed, but buttoned wrong. Frank pushed aside her hair with one finger, uncovering the livid marks of strangulation around her neck.

"Who was she?" he asked.

"Shari-Anne Parker," Daly replied, also crouching beside the body, holding a light wool scarf in one hand. The paramedics had untied the scarf he told Frank, in their efforts to revive her, but she'd evidently twisted it tight on herself, using a short stick knotted in the scarf.

"She left this," he said, and handed Frank a plastic evidence bag containing a note. "Says here Barnett told her she was going to make her life hell, and that she'd be better dead." He looked at Frank. "You still think that girl is innocent?" he asked.

Frank remained silent, turning the note over and over in his hand, not bothering to read it. Often he found that the truth was not written on paper, but was there somewhere in between the author and the words.

Shari-Anne Parker's eyes stared up at him and he looked into them for the answers, before reaching down and gently closing them. With his touch he flashed on _- Shari-Anne, smiling and laughing. Another in the shadows - _A boy? He could not be sure. Someone watching with fear and desire both. _A boy questioning, demanding - Grace, her face changed by - hatred -_ no, not hatred, too strong, maybe - anger, denial. _The girl, Shari, and Grace arguing over something, someone - _The emotions were too strong, the images made unclear by them. Frank shook his head as if to clear them away, he could not interpret the images, could not yet see the truth beyond the feelings.

Daly was speaking to him, "- finally we've got Barnett. This proves it. Look at her clothes. Someone rearranged them after death."

"No," Frank shook his head. "It proves nothing. Even a threat, an alleged threat by Grace to this girl cannot implicate her. This girl killed herself. She was not murdered."

"Then Barnett made her. Just like she made the others kill themselves. She's got some sort of power, she's influencing them. She's evil and if you cannot see that you're blind!" Angrily he stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers and glancing around. "If you've finished here, Mr. Black?"

His voice was sarcastic, but Frank ignored him and once again touched her face gently. So young, he thought. Such a waste of an innocent life.

Frank followed Daly outside as the forensic teams came forward again, slowly, almost casually, they had no need to rush now. The wheels would turn as normal, the scene and the body would be photographed in situ, evidence such as there was gathered, and Shari-Anne Parker's remains removed for the autopsy and later the burial and another family would be left to mourn. Frank was filled with foreboding as he drove away.

* * *

Seattle

12:20 pm

Chelsea waited for her sister Taylor outside the Burger King, shifting her feet from side to side nervously. This was where the high school kids came for lunch and she stood out like a sore thumb. Taylor was right on time though, and bought them both burgers for lunch as promised. They sat outside, hunched against the light wind.

"Taylor, it's cold out here. Why can't we eat inside?"

"Too many people to hear. Sit down."

"Hear what?"

"What you're going to tell me about what's going on with you and Dad, and everything."

Chelsea sat. "There's nothing going on," she said after a moment.

Taylor looked over her drink at her little sister, who stared at her own meal unhappily. "Talk to me, Chels," she said. "I'm not much, but I am your big sister." She stuck her lower lip out when Chelsea looked up. "'Sides," she said, trying to elicit a smile from her sister, "you know how I hate to be left out of anything."

After a moment Chelsea started telling her sister her problem, and how she'd gone to their father for help, and how now Corey wasn't speaking to her and... and she stopped when Taylor's friends joined them around the table.

"Hey, squirt," Jerry said, ruffling Chelsea's hair as he sat down beside her. Chelsea looked death at him, but he didn't notice, too busy falling all over Taylor. Taylor's gang squeezed Chelsea out until she sat on the edge of the bench. Taylor met her sister's eyes as they complained about the cold and the food, and their classes.

"Hey, guys. Later, all right?" Taylor said, getting up, nodding to Chelsea to follow her. A couple others protested, including Jerry. "This is important," she told him. "Give me some space, okay?"

"Hey, I'm not important?"

Taylor stared at him. Maybe it was the delicate terrible thing she and Chelsea had been talking about. Maybe she was oversensitive. Still, his tone grated down her spine like nails on a blackboard. He stood there, plaintively asking her to ignore her sister and pay attention to him. "Give me a break, Jerry," she said when she could think beyond her need to slap him. "She's my sister."

"Exactly what I mean. We're your friends, Taylor."

Chelsea watched quietly as Taylor gave Jerry one of her dad's famous looks. One that they had all seen many times and lived to regret.

Jerry didn't recognised the look, but he understood the meaning and backed off. "Fine, do what you want, but don't come looking for me later." He turned his back on her and joined his friends.

Taylor looked at Chelsea, not understanding her amusement. She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Spooky," Chelsea replied. "Really spooky."

"Forget about Jerry," Taylor dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Talk to Corey. She needs your help right now, and you're the only one who can talk to her. She'll trust you. What she said about you breaking your promise, she doesn't really mean. She'll come round, I promise."

"Think so?" Chelsea asked doubtfully.

"Hey, I'm your big sister," Taylor smiled. "Trust me."

To Be Continued . . . . .


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Corinth

2:35 PM

Grace couldn't put her finger on it, but there was _something_ different this morning. It was like... a lightening, a lifting of the heavy atmosphere that had followed her for weeks.

Maybe she was imagining things. But that prickle at the back of her neck of being watched was gone. How odd.

She sat in class, in the last row as usual. The teacher went on with whatever she was babbling about, and the students actually looked interested in what she was saying, instead of craning their necks to whisper to each other, sneak peeks at her.

The whole day had been like that. She walked down the halls without being called or jeered once. She held her books in front of her, and no one attempted to knock them free. She let them slip to her hip, and still no one bumped her.

The psychologist at the hospital had assured her it would be like this. At some point she would pass back into anonymity, no longer the number one topic of everyone's gossip, as some other nine day wonder took their attention. Grace hadn't believed him, but maybe...

She couldn't figure out what had caught their notice now, but she figured it didn't really matter as long as they weren't watching her anymore. That was a relief.

* * *

She walked home alone, no one followed her. She paused in the centre of town, leaning up against one of the flower planters. One grocery store, one drugstore, one restaurant, one hotel and cafe. Sheriff's office, post office attached to the drugstore. Hardware store, discount clothing store. Used to be a bank, but it was closed and replaced by a machine. Just the basics.

It was stupid to hate the town, she thought. It was just a town, probably much the same as any other. But she did. She hated the town itself. She'd gladly stand and watch as each building on the street went up in flames. She'd roast marshmallows over the coals. And then no one would _ever _drag her back here.

Stupid fantasies she'd never carry out. She sighed and shifted the pack on her back. If she had any guts at all she should just run. Run away as far and as fast as she could.

Last time didn't work so well, did it?

Grace closed her eyes, squeezed them shut. Enough. No more. She wasn't going to think of that anymore. If the town could forget so could she.

She went into the drugstore instead of going home. There was nothing of interest in any of the magazines she flipped through, and she didn't even look at the makeup. There were a couple other people in the store, and try as she did she couldn't catch them looking at her, nor catch their whispers. Still, the atmosphere seemed to thicken by the minute until Grace felt the hair on the back of her neck start to crawl. Oh well, perhaps it had been too much to hope that everyone would forgive and forget at the same time. Finally she just picked up a bag of chips and a pop and took them to the counter. Just as she got there, the girl there, Nicola, headed to the back room with some empty boxes.

Grace waited a few minutes, then several more. She looked around and the store was empty. The pharmacist, Nicola's father, and the two customers had disappeared as if vaporised. Surely they weren't all in the back room?

"I'll just leave the money here," she called out loudly. No one answered.

She went out again, unable to shake a sick feeling that hung over her. There were only a few people on the street, but no one looked at her. How would she know if they were ignoring her because she wasn't worth noticing or if it was on purpose? What if they were all in on it?

Oh God! I _am_ going crazy!

Paranoid, that's what she was. Her father was paranoid and now so was she. The whole idea was crazy. She thought of going in to the restaurant, but she already had snacks she didn't want. She chose the clothing store as the next nearest.

Service was never their strong suit, so she didn't expect anyone to attend her while she played with examining the circular racks of clothes. She stood in one corner and watched the other shoppers and clerks as she pushed the blouses aside one by one.

They went about their business same as always. As Grace watched she saw how many times people interacted, communicated with each other, both verbally and nonverbally without even noticing they were doing it. A glance or a nod here, a word there and volumes were exchanged.

Grace picked up a blouse at random, and walked towards the cashier. Another woman walking down the aisle toward Grace abruptly took a left turn into sporting goods as Grace walked by. Unshed tears burnt inside her as she walked past the check out and out the door of the store. The security alarm went off, picking up the metal tag attached to the blouse. Grace stopped and tied the laces of her runners, holding the blouse under one arm.

The alarm was turned off, but no one came out after her.

Grace walked down the sidewalk passing the stores one by one. "I didn't do it," she said. "You don't understand. They were supposed to kill me, too. I didn't kill them!" She kept walking, wandering across the street. A car stopped to avoid hitting her, but didn't honk. She stared at it. She pounded on the hood. "Talk to me! You can't just ignore me!"

* * *

"Where is Grace now?" Frank demanded as he walked into the sheriff's office. "I checked at the school, and no one's seen her."

Casually Daly shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. Probably hiding somewhere. But I tell ya, I'd like to get a hold of her."

Frank leaned his palms on the table and glared at Daly. "Then why aren't you out there looking for her? Do you think she'll just walk in here and give herself up?"

Daly smiled and nodded his head, "Give herself up you say! So now you believe she's guilty?"

In exasperation Frank ran his hand through his hair. God Almighty, he thought. Is he doing this deliberately to taunt me, or is he really that stupid?

"Right now it doesn't matter what I think or believe. It's what you and the rest of the people in this town believe that is important. Once the word of Shari Parker's - death - gets round, people are going to expect and even demand action. If you value your job then maybe you should take the first step, and at least, be seen to be doing something, or you are going to end up with a real mess on your hands. A worse mess than you have already," he stopped, forcing himself to be calm, but it was hard, so hard.

"Charlie, listen to me. If she is guilty, I'll be the first to admit it, but if she's innocent then we have to help her. Either way we have to act."

Daly stood up and reached for his car keys.

"Yeah," he sighed. "You're right, Frank. You're right."

"Let's go then."

* * *

"It isn't fair. I never meant for anything to happen, I just went along with them." The car sped off as Grace approached the driver's side door. "It was Todd's gun - Todd's dad's gun, I mean. Blame him. All we wanted to do was get out of here. Get out of this god forsaken town." The diners at the restaurant paid her no attention, though she leaned against the window looking in on them, her arms crossed above her head. She was hardly aware that she was speaking, though she could see her breath condense on the glass and evaporate just as quickly. Leaving as much of an impression as her words.

"Jeff had it in him he wasn't coming back, for nothing." She turned her back on the restaurant and slid down until she sat on the brick sidewalk. "He must of had it out with his dad that day or something, cause he drove up to my house and said he was leaving, and he wasn't coming back. Was I coming or not, he said."

She threw small stones back into the street as she spoke. "Well, what was I supposed to do?" she asked herself. "We went and got Todd, and just started driving. We had only five bucks between us when we stopped for gas. I don't know if Jeff knew Todd had a gun. I thought we was just gonna gas up and run for it.

"Then they went inside, and told me to wait. I waited. I couldn't see but I waited for what seemed like a long time before I went into the store myself.

"They were crazy, yelling and screaming... The woman was screaming in Spanish or something. I asked Jeff what was going on and - I never saw what happened but suddenly Todd was shooting - at everything. I saw the woman go down, and there was blood everywhere - Jeff grabbed me and we ran for the car, and Todd came with us and he was yelling and hollering like he was high on something.

She stopped, remembering. The car chase. The aftermath.

* * *

Frank tried the doorbell a few times with no response. He resorted to hammering on the door with his fist. Still no response. They had been standing there on Will Barnett's front door step for five minutes now. He looked at Daly who shrugged his shoulders.

"Car's in the garage. Everything looks normal." The sheriff answered his unspoken question.

"Nothing's normal," Frank muttered to himself as he hit the door even harder this time, more in frustration than anything else. He pressed his finger on the bell, holding it there, letting it ring continuously.

"Think we should bust it?" Daly asked.

He was about to say yes when the door opened, making him jump back in surprise, and a very hung over Will Barnett stood in front of him. The man was a mess, his eyes bloodshot, his face still dazed from drunken slumber. The sweater he had pulled on was inside out. He swayed slightly, trying to focus on the two men standing on his doorstep.

"Whassamatter," he mumbled, blinking against the daylight.

"Where's Grace?" Frank asked.

He thought for a second or two, looked at his watch and scratched his head. "School I guess. Why?"

Frank pushed past him. "No Will, she's not at school. We've already checked there. Do you mind if I take a look for her?" He didn't wait for a reply, but carried on inside, up the stairs two at a time, calling her name. But she was not in the house.

He returned downstairs to find Barnett and Daly in the kitchen. Barnett was gulping down a glass of water.

"Do you know where your daughter is?" Frank repeated his earlier question. "When did you last see her?

"Yesterday - or maybe last evening, I think. Ahh Christ, I can't remember," he shook his head, trying to clear it, to retrieve his memory. "I don't know," he finished lamely, unable to look either man in the face.

Some parent, Frank thought. He pulled a pen from the pocket of his jacket and reached for a scrap of paper lying on the table.

"If she turns up Will, or you find out where she is, you call me on this number. It's very urgent. If you care about your daughter at all you call me."

He slapped the number into Barnett's hand, turned and walked outside.

Daly followed him and found him leaning up against the car, his eyes closed tightly in frustration and anger.

"Frank," Daly spoke quietly. "Look."

He glanced up at the tone of the man's voice and groaned as he saw four cars coming along the road towards them. They pulled up a short distance away and the door of the lead car opened and a heavy-set man stepped out.

"Vern Parker," Daly explained. "Shari-Anne's father."

The lynch mob, Frank thought. Well, it had only been a matter of time.

"She's not here Vern," Daly yelled as the man walked towards them.

"Then where the hell is she?" Parker growled menacingly. His face was haggard and grey. A man at the end of his tether, a man who only a short time ago had formally identified the body of his youngest daughter. "Where is the goddamm murderin` bitch?"

All eyes looked to Frank as his cell-phone rang, halting them in their tracks and drawing their angry glares away from their sheriff to the stranger in their midst. Frank stepped back, and turned away from them as they watched his every movement.

"Mr. Black?" a female voice spoke to him. "This here's Sarah from Millar's café, y`know across from the motel."

"Yes," Frank frowned.

"Well, you'd better be gettin` over here right away. Grace Barnett is here, and I think there's gonna be trouble - bad trouble."

"Thank you Sarah. Thank you."

He grabbed Daly's arm, "Come on, I know where she is."

As Daly drove Frank became aware of an atmosphere surrounding him, and the looks from the passersby made him feel uncomfortable - he flashed on_ - smashing windows - the screech of a penknife on the bodywork of a car_ - _burning - someone cursing - a police siren - a fire truck - darkness and a shadow trying to escape._

Frank blinked and once more he was driving along the Corinth street. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Vern Parker and his army followed them back into town. Daly parked outside the café. "I'll talk to them," he offered. "You go get her."

Frank slipped inside, leaving Daly to face the mob. Daly got out of the car slowly, placing his hat on his head, tilting it down over his face. He hitched up his belt and squared his shoulders. He watched them carefully.

"Jesus fuckin`Christ," someone yelled. "Get her out here, Charlie. If you can't or wont deal with her, then we will! Freezing her out didn't work, and now another kid is dead!"

"Now hold on a minute, hold on a minute," Daly raised his hands in a hopeless attempt to placate them.

"Where is she?" Frank asked the waitress.

"In back." She pointed towards the store room.

"Grace?" Frank rapped softly on the door and called her name. There was no reply and he opened it and looked in. Grace was a sorry sight, her shoulders hunched and her arms crossed tightly against her chest, huddled in the corner against the shelves of tinned goods. She looked up at him and stepped forward. Her face was tear-streaked and he could see the beginnings of an angry bruise on her left cheek. She was trembling with fear. She was shivering and Frank got up and took off his jacket placing it around her. She glared at him, her face pale and her eyes angry, but tear-stained.

"Frank," she mumbled. "Oh, Frank I'm so scared."

For just a moment he was unsure, and could only stand there in front of her, but he was tempted to reach out to her. Then he flashed on - _angry voices - Grace running through the streets – hiding in a doorway – terror, hatred, anger - and_ _innocence. _

"I didn't like mom's boyfriend," she said, without preamble, as if they'd already been talking for some minutes. "He sometimes - he sometimes came into my room at night, when she was working late. He would touch me, make me do things. I hated him, and sometimes I would sneak out of the house and go over to Jeff's. Just to get away."

She stopped and looked at him, her eyes hardening, the tough outer shell now back and the vulnerable Grace hidden underneath.

"What about your father?"

Grace snorted. "My Dad... still thinks he's fighting the Vietnam war. When he's sober enough to stand that is. Sometimes I'm the good guys, sometimes I'm the gooks. Can't tell which from one minute to the next."

"What happened with Tim Sleeman?"

Grace shook her head. "I hardly knew Tim. He was three grades ahead of me, and he probably never knew I existed. Until after. Everything is before and after. After, he would stare at me for minutes at a time, until I had to move, go somewhere else. He looked like he wanted something from me. One time... he cornered me in the stairs in school. We both should have been in class. He rambled on and on about suicide being a sin and how it didn't solve anything, and it just hurt the people who cared about us... Just disconnected nonsense. I thought he was talking about me, but after, -again after- I realised he'd been talking about himself.

I didn't know- If I'd known I would have told him-

I don't know what I would have told him.

Then he did it, and people started talking even more. Somebody's seen us talking in the stairs, and this rumour started that I'd been the last one to speak to him, and that I'd told him to do it.

I didn't! You have to believe me.

It didn't matter. Everyone else believed it. I was famous," she said, drawing out the last word bitterly. "Infamous."

"I... took advantage of it. I admit it. I never had many friends. Without Jeff and Todd, I had no one. Then the other kids all wanted to be around me like I was some cheap roller coaster ride. I was the closest thing to a cheap thrill they knew. They followed me around waiting for the next performance.

It was so pathetic. A little vandalism here, a petty theft there. I had a _reputation_, so it was all so dangerous and mysterious.

And then it wasn't fun anymore. Adults were finally taking notice and getting annoyed. Some guy - new in town - was pushing me to push drugs for him to the other kids. A couple other guys found me out late one night, where I shouldn't have been, and they- they-" She stopped, unable to form the words. She shook her head, pushing the incident away again, taking refuge behind her cynical shell. "Let's just say they believed me when I said I had a gun in my pocket and I would use it.

And then Bobby McIntyre killed himself. He'd said he was going to do it, and I thought he was just talking - you know trying to fit in with the cool kids that we were." Her sarcasm was sharp, and self-inflicted. "If I'd known... I should have known. God, after everything you'd think I'd learn..." She shook her head.

"I don't know what his problem was. He just never fit in, anywhere. I felt sorry for him. For once, I thought, I had the power to do something for somebody else. I thought if I included him in the gang, even though I knew we were all frauds, he would at least be able to say that he belonged somewhere. I thought I was doing him a favour.

Some favour.

That's when the rumours really started to build. I was this Pied Piper going to lead all the kids to kill themselves. I was starting a cult, plotting to murder everyone over thirty in their beds. Craziness.

When the other kids turned against me I tried to get out. I stopped going out at night. I wanted to go back to live with my Mom, but she didn't want me. Her boyfriend was gone and she thought having me around would make it hard for her to get a new one. Dad was way off the deep end, and swung between needing my help and needing to beat my head in.

Now Shari-Ann Parker. Shit." She shook her head, her eyes meeting Frank's in adult cynicism. "At first I swear I thought she did it just to get me. She hated me from the third grade, I don't even remember why. I never talked to her, or her to me. No way I had anything to do with her death. I still don't believe she did it. I think - I don't know, but I think - she and her boyfriend were playing some sort of dangerous game. There was lots of talk about her. He cleaned her up before calling the cops, one guy told me. They were fooling around, he said, getting off on strangling each other or something and it went too far. I don't know. Those kind of thrills I can do without.

But it was the last straw. The final nail."

He gently tilted her chin up and gave her cheek a cursory examination. She winced at his touch, but he could not detect any broken bones. "You're gonna have a shiner tomorrow kid."

She buried her head in his shoulder, "I didn't do it. What they're saying. I didn't do it."

He believed her. If anyone asked him why, he could not have explained, but something told him she was telling the truth. Maybe a feeling, maybe something more. Whatever it was, he knew he was right, and so he put his arms around her and held her close. He comforted her as best as he could and they stayed that way for a few moments, before he gently led her out. "Are these your school books?" he asked collecting a forgotten bag on the floor. She nodded, and slung them behind her back.

Daly was waiting outside, joined by two of his deputies, and with a few well-chosen words, and a few threats about the consequences of taking the law into their own hands, backed up by his hand resting firmly on the butt of his gun, he had convinced them to back off.

Grace kept her face buried in Frank's sleeve as he led her out of the café towards the waiting squad car. From somewhere in the crowd a stone was thrown. It struck Frank on the shoulder but the tough leather of his jacket deflected the blow and he barely felt it. instinctively he raised his arm as another and then a third stone was thrown at them. Then came a volley of rocks from the crowd and they began to move forward again. Frank shoved the girl into the back of the car. Daly drew his sidearm and shouted a warning as a rock hit the roof of the car, bounced off it and landed at his feet. They had a taste for blood now and more and more rocks were pelting the car and the ground nearby. Thankfully their anger reduced their aim. Daly fired a round into the air above their heads. The report echoed loudly and halted them momentarily.

"The next one won't be fired into the air," he warned. His words seemed to get through and with angry looks and gestures they became still.

He only lowered the gun when he had checked that Frank and Grace were safely inside the car. He climbed in himself and started the engine, the car lurching forwards into the crowd. Hands grabbed at the doors and slapped against the windows. Grace cowered low in the seat, tightly wrapped in Frank's arms as they sped away, the two deputies following in their own car.

"Radio Eddy to go get Will Barnett and bring him to the station," Frank said as they drove the short, but now hazardous journey back to the police station and relative safety.

To Be Continued . . . .


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Corinth.

7:25pm

Frank stood by the window. He looked out, scanning the street for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. So far, nothing. The town was as it always was, or had been up until recently. Yet it was different somehow, more hostile as though they were out there, behind the shops and houses, in the cars, behind the facade of normalcy, waiting for him, for her. Siege mentality, he thought. Still it was justified. The crowd that had gathered and the scenes he had witnessed earlier made it that way. They had gone more or less dissipated now, but who was to say they wouldn't be back. He looked at his watch; seven-thirty. If a few of them hit the local bars and got tanked up there could be real trouble. He knew he had to come up with something quickly.

Peter found a number of messages waiting for him when he signed on in the morning, but he skipped them all to the one from Frank.

**To: PWatts **

**From: FBlack **

**Subject: Grace**

**Peter- **

**The situation here is rapidly moving beyond my control. This young girl has been cast in the role of scapegoat, in the Old Testament sense, where she is imbued with all the sins of the community and then cast out to carry away those sins. The problem remains that she has not gone away, and the people hate her for her personification of their weakness.**

**The only crime here is the one done to her, not by her. I see removal of both her and her father as the only solution.**

**I spoke to Catherine, and she agrees. There are a number of programs Grace's father could qualify for, good ones that include employment and psychological counselling, even with medical supervision. One very good program runs out of the VA hospital in Tacoma. My concern is with Grace. You and I both know that leaving her to the uncertain mercy of the foster home system may be as bad as the situation she is in now.**

**I hesitate to involve the Group for anything beyond consulting. You know how I feel, particularly after what happened in Alaska. But, if you can, if you will, if you or the Group have the resources to help Grace, I'm asking.**

**Frank.**

Peter read the last lines, guilt burning like acid in his throat, knowing what it took for Frank to ask him for a favour. Alaska. Shit. He owed Frank big time after that mess, but he would find some other way to pay him back. This was not a favour. This was right. He picked up the phone and pressed the quick dial for Frank's pre-programmed number.

* * *

Corinth

Sheriff's Dept.

Frank set the phone down and looked at Daly. He knew Peter would come through. Now all I got to do is sell it to these people, he thought. He sat down in front of the two men and began to plead his, or rather Grace's case. As he explained that the best answer was for Grace to go to a foster home, he could see the grief mingled with relief in Will's eyes. He felt sympathy for the man, who had inadvertently failed his daughter, and he thought of Jordan and prayed he would never experience those feelings himself.

"She's a bright, intelligent kid, Will. She can go far, given the chance. Give her the chance?" Frank pushed.

Weakly he nodded.

Daly looked relieved, but curiously unsatisfied. "How do you know?" he asked Frank quietly a few minutes later, while Grace and her father faced each other silently across an interview table. Even now they had nothing to say to each other. "How can you be sure she didn't threaten or intimidate Shari-Ann into doing what she did?"

Frank smoothed the note left in the barn against the tabletop. Next to it he opened Grace's notebook to a random page. Even a casual glance showed that they were quite different. "The writing..." Daly wondered almost to himself. "You knew from the writing?"

Frank shook his head. "I knew before that, but the note is something you can use to prove it to the townspeople. You might have a talk with the young man who was actually in the barn with Shari-Ann last night, who left this note implicating Grace."

Daly's lips pursed, and he nodded, putting the pieces together. "Dale Crowley," he said, rubbing his eyebrows with one hand. "And then they were... Ah shit, they... that explains..." He shook his head. "They couldn't have just gone down to the lake like all the other kids?"

"It's February," Frank said.

* * *

Seattle

7:30pm

Catherine phoned Peter as soon as she was sure. "Geibelhouse arrested him this afternoon. He was going to phone you, but I persuaded him to let me. Corey Garnier gave her statement this morning, and we caught him just as he was packing to leave once more. Cases of it, Peter. Photos, videos, data discs for web sites - you name it, this guy provided it. It looks like he was supplying a whole network. Geibs thinks they may be able to get a bunch more names, even without cutting a deal." She took a deep breath. "Nothing of Chelsea, I'm pretty sure. I found the stuff of her friend, but nothing of Chelsea."

Peter didn't answer right away. Only as the weight dropped away from him did he realize how worried he had been. "Thank you, Catherine," he said, a little unsteadily. "Thank you."

"Peter-" This time she hesitated, as if she had something more she wanted to add. Peter could almost hear her shake her head. "Never mind," she said. "Just... mark one down for the good guys today."

He smiled. "I'll tell her. Me too."

He found Chelsea watching TV with her sisters. "You did good, kiddo," he said to her quietly, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm very proud of you today."

Taylor looked absorbed in the program, and Erin in her book, pointedly uncurious about the attention given to Chelsea. Well, so be it, Peter thought. Evidently they had settled things between themselves. "Nice to see you home this evening, Taylor," he said without irony. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Nothing going on tonight, that's all."

"No date with Jerry?"

"Jerry is old news, Dad. I'm not seeing him anymore."

"What happened?"

Taylor looked up, noticing how his hand still rested lightly on Chelsea's shoulder. Jealousy squirted through her, but she quelled it immediately. Chelsea got a 'you did good' for the way she dealt with her problem, and she got a 'I'm disappointed' for getting into trouble with her friends. Perhaps he would be proud of her for not getting a tattoo, but compared with Chelsea, it was such a little thing. It was only what he expected.

"Nothing happened," she said. "Nothing important."

Peter glanced at Erin, finding her watching them. She flushed and looked down. The best thing that could happen to her, he thought, is for her to go away to college and quit trying to take care of all of us. It was his fault for letting her assume the role in the first place, and for relying on her when she did. The best way for her to go to college is with her goals firmly in sight and the support of her parents in those goals.

"Bob Rawlins is head of the Seattle Bureau," he told her. She looked as if this was not news, but not sure what he meant by it. "I've known him since Syracuse. Your mother and I should really have him over for dinner one day soon."

Erin stared, appearing finally not as if she was holding back, but as if she really didn't know what to say. "And if I wanted - a year or two down the road - to ask him for a recommendation to Quantico..."

"He'd be the one to ask," Peter said.

"You're sure?" she asked, glowing.

He nodded. "Probably. If I think of someone else, I'll let you know."

"Oh, Da-ad!"

* * *

Seattle

1:20am

The house was in darkness as the cab pulled up outside. Of course it's in darkness, Barbara thought to herself as she paid the driver his fare. It'll soon be two in the morning. She unlocked the door, wincing as it creaked, trying to be as quiet as possible, but not succeeding very well. She hung her jacket over a chair and tiptoed upstairs leaving her suitcase in the hall to be unpacked in the morning. Peter was fast asleep but wakened when she switched on the small lamp by her side of the bed.

"What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Just gone one-thirty. I caught the last flight.

"You should have phoned. I would have picked you up."

"No need. I caught a cab without any problems." She began to undress, dropping clothes in a pile on the floor to be laundered in the morning. Peter watched each graceful movement.

"I'm just going to shower," she said. "Won't be long."

He began to drift off again as he listened to the running water, but came awake as she slipped in beside him and he turned towards her, his arms encircling her, kissing her still-damp hair. "The girls missed you," he whispered. Then he kissed her lips.

"And you?" she teased, smiling in the darkness.

"Me, too."

Much later, sleep still someways distant, he brought her up to date on the things she has missed out on while she was away. Normal family things, phone calls, bills to be paid. Just all the usual things. Then, almost as an afterthought, though it was far from being that, he told her about Chelsea.

"But there's no problem. Nothing to worry about. Chels was not involved in any way," he concluded, biting his lip in the darkness.

He thought at first she was not going to answer.

"Peter, you should have told me." When she did speak there was an edge to her voice and it was nothing less than he expected.

"I know, but - well, I got the impression Chelsea wanted to talk to the cop in me, not the parent."

"Even so -" she let it pass. "How did she take all of it? Is she okay? Really?"

"She's fine Barbara, honestly."

"Still, I want to talk to her tomorrow about it."

"If there had been more-if it had been more serious I would have told you."

"I know," that was all she said, almost, but not quite letting him off the hook. She would phone Catherine in the morning, maybe meet her for lunch and find out the entire story from her. Although, more than a little angry with Peter, she knew him well enough to know if there had been a problem he would have told her. This secrecy of his was just his attempt to shield her from the outside world. It didn't work, and it was so dammed frustrating at times, but how could she tell him that?

But she loved him because of it and with that thought in mind she laid her head on his shoulder and drifted off to sleep beside him.

* * *

Seattle

2 days later.

Female chatter greeted them as they walked up the steps.

"What's the capital of Montana?"

"Chelsea, I told you to do your homework last night!"

"What's the capital of Wyoming?"

Peter opened the door on organised chaos. Erin was trying to make lunch for herself and Chelsea and have her own breakfast. Chelsea ignored the cereal in front of her in order to do the neglected homework. Taylor paced back and forth with the phone in one hand, a piece of toast in another.

"Oh, thank God, you're home," Erin said, catching sight of Peter. "Mom's left early for a meeting in Tacoma. I have an nine o'clock class -" He hauled her back with one hand when she pecked him on the cheek and would have run off.

Silence fell as they caught sight of Grace.

"Taylor, hang up the phone. You'll talk to your friends in ten minutes at school, anyway."

"Gotta go," Taylor said, and obeyed her father. This looked to be more interesting anyway.

Grace stood there, one bag in hand, an orphan in deed if not in fact. She couldn't meet their eyes.

"Everyone, this is Grace. She's going to be staying with us for a while." No one said anything. "Grace, this is Erin."

They shook hands. "Da-ad..." she said to her father, warning.

Peter smoothed her hair. "This is not your concern. It is mine. Don't you have a class, or something?"

"God! Yes. Nice to meet you, Grace."

"This is Taylor."

Taylor gathered her books in her arms in front of her as if as a defensive shield. She glanced once at her father, but reserved her curiosity for Grace. The two girls examined one another. Grace was closer to Chelsea in age, but experience made her seem older. If there was going to be a conflict, it would be here.

"I suppose you'll be rooming with me," Taylor said. "I use the bed on the right. The dresser - Dad! The dresser-"

"Go to school," Peter said. "We'll figure it out this afternoon."

The screen door slammed behind her. Chelsea remained, still sitting at the table, both homework and breakfast forgotten. Grace put her bag on a chair. Peter moved down the hall, shedding shoes and jacket. "What is the capital of Montana?" Chelsea asked, pitching it so her father could hear, but watching Grace.

"Did you not have time to look that up last night?" Peter called back.

"Helena," Grace supplied.

"What is the capital of Wyoming?" Chelsea whispered to Grace, beaming, and scribbling down the answer. Her sisters always made her work for the answers.

"Cheyenne," Grace said, and spelled it for her.

"Cool. Thanks," Chelsea said, flipping her books closed. "Welcome home."

Peter came back to the kitchen to find only Grace there, looking as if the ground had suddenly shifted from under her feet. He started to reassure her that the girls would open up once they knew her better, but she only looked even more distraught. He seriously did not know what to do when she teared up and started laughing and crying at the same time.

He asked her what was wrong. "Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "I just never had sisters before."

THE END.


End file.
